


The Natural Way

by AlphaRider14



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon), Tangled (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Dramatic, Eugene Needs a Hug, F/M, Internal Conflict, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Please Don't Kill Me, Redemption, baron and stalyan are more sinister, enough change from the actual movie, gothel sucks, probs no songs this time who knows, rapunzel is too good for this world, serious yet still sarcastic flynn, take it back, trying to fill in some loose plot points, way more serious than the original film, way way more serious than the original film
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:22:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 47,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28410849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaRider14/pseuds/AlphaRider14
Summary: Flynn Rider has never had it easy. For as long as he can remember, he’s been a fugitive, a criminal on the run from the law. He’s been a man who has proclaimed himself to be free, despite knowing otherwise, despite knowing himself to be confined to the walls built up by those around him. Empathy for his peers deludes him, his persona forever hardened by the burdens society has unfairly placed upon his shoulders.And right within Flynn's grasp is his ticket to a better life. His ticket to power, to leading practically the entire criminal underworld. With this ticket, Flynn can cement his status as Baron's successor. And up to this point, that is all that has ever mattered to him.Until he sees her.And for the first time since he was a young boy, he takes a deep breath not as Flynn, but as Eugene. In this moment, he is re-born as Eugene Fitzherbert and for the first time in his life, his heart beats with a defining purpose. It beats for someone else, and initially, it startles him. It startles Eugene because never before has his heart beat for anyone other than himself.And it's all because of her.A more serious re-telling of 'Tangled', with universe and timeline alterations.
Relationships: Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider/Rapunzel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 38





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! It's been a few months since I've even written any extended piece of fiction, but this idea of a 'Tangled' re-telling got stuck in my head and I decided to try expanding a little and drawing up this potentially beginning little chapter to this alternative take on the story we all know and cherish. This first posting is more for myself to experiment, but if people come to like this, I might try to write and expand this a little further. I've included tags of other characters in the case this may happen. 
> 
> To clear up some potential confusion, this story, or idea for one, has Flynn stealing the crown for a very different reason than what we see in the movie. I think this chapter provides enough clarity, but if people are confused, I am free to explain the concept. Also, this chapter, and my vague idea for the potential rest of this tale, are told mostly from Flynn's perspective in third person point-of-view.
> 
> So, just as a reminder, there's no guarantee I'll continue this, for I value focusing on other, more important outlets in my life at the moment. But if some people find this piece and the potential story interesting, that could provide as motivation for me to continue. Okay, that's enough from me. I hope you enjoy this short piece/potential first chapter.

His heart is racing.

Beating.

Pumping.

Running in circles, you could say.

He jumps decisively, quickly, from one perch to another. He’s carefully tip-toeing his way behind both of the boneheaded brothers - Ron and Brian Stabbington.

Flynn has his eyes on the prize. A golden tiara. Or crown. Whatever the stupid thing is called, it doesn’t matter. What _matters_ is the power it holds. The power it can bring him in short, due time. And if there’s one thing Flynn cares about in this world aside from himself, it’s power. Because power brings potential. Because with power comes the tales of wealth and acclaim. Power over the criminal underworld, power over the estate the greatest crime lord in history has built up. Power over practically any King or Noble who dares attempt to bring him to justice.

And golly, don’t they all want to.

He quickens his pace, continuing to trail behind the brothers. From where he walks on-top of the sunshine country’s highest peak, he spots two armored guards down below walking adjacently to one another in tip-top formation. He pays them no more attention as he moves forward.

He knows chances are that in roughly thirty minutes time, those two guards could be among the dozens hunting down his and the brothers’ trail as they hastily make their escape past Corona’s border wall, and into the vast countryside where their ticket to fame lays just a day’s journey away.

Flynn hears the invisible bells in his head, the cheers of his comrades from back home in Vardaros. He can taste the sweet flavor of victory as he stands at the front of the altar with his beautiful bride to be, Stalyan, as she dons the very crown he has travelled all the way to Corona to barter.

Yes, barter. He isn’t _stealing_ or _thieving_ this tiara, this crown, or whatever the hell it’s called. Flynn may be cruel, but he isn’t selfish. He, like anyone else who’s even stepped foot in this sunshine country called Corona, knows the tale, or _tragedy_ as many others call it, of the long lost heir to the throne, Princess Eleanor Helmsworth the third.

He himself isn’t one for sob stories, and he never really has been. In his mind, there’s simply no point to them. All they do is bring people down and kill the mood. There’s no such thing as a good or productive sob story. So, Flynn sees his and the Stabbingtons’ little heist as a two way deal. He gets the crown, the one thing that is enough to finally cement his status as Baron’s chosen successor, the Stabbingtons get themselves a handsome reward, and the sad country he’s dealing with can finally forget the Princess who’s never coming home, and move on with their lives to focus on things that are more important.

Things like bettering the sad excuse of a guard patrol they enlist. Seriously, how has no one stolen this crown already?

Much to his chagrin, in the eyes of the citizens of whichever city or country he’s decided to grace with his handsome face, he is not seen as a man who brings good fortune. To them, he’s nothing but a _low-life_ who finds joy in the theft of others’ valuables, someone whose soul has been darkened and burned to the point of no valiant return. To them, he is everything that is wrong with this world.

On the contrary, in the eyes of the criminal underworld, he is a prophet. He is a _prodigy_. He is everything they want in someone who is soon to be in this position of commanding power. Charming? Devilishly. Handsome? Guilty as charged, Flynn would say. Manipulative, keen-eyed, young and in great physical and mental shape? You bet your life he is.

He is the one man who is more primed and capable than anyone living on this entire _continent_ to take the official title of 'Baron' and lead the criminal empire to heights that have never been seen. Flynn’s whole life up to this point has been leading towards this one moment, and finally realizing this, he stops for a small moment to take it all in.

Flynn holds onto the edge of the pristine pillar, leaning ever so slightly off the edge as he gazes in awe off into the distance. “Wow,” he finally says in a breathless tone, breaking his and the brothers’ deathly silence. “I could get used to a view like this.”

“Rider!” Ron, the brother with the sideburns, hisses in an intentionally quiet voice. Flynn doesn’t move initially. “Come on!”

Flynn lifts up a hand, keeping his gaze. “Hold on,” he says. He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply, inhaling the odorless scent and the bizarre, yet thrilling, sensation of being this high up. After a few seconds, he folds back. “Yup, I’m used to it. Guys, when Stalyan and I tie the knot, the first thing on my agenda as the head chief of Vardaros is getting myself a castle.”

Brian, the younger brother with no tongue and an eyepatch over his bad left eye, rolls his good right eye in annoyment as he holds open the hatch. The only reason he and Ron even agreed to accompany Flynn on the ‘heist of the century’ as Baron comically called it, is because of Baron’s ensurement of proper compensation coming their way.

But that doesn’t mean they have to like that they’re forced to deal with Flynn’s tom-foolery, and the mere fact that he’s standing _out in the open_ -

Ron steps towards Flynn. “How about we actually grab the stinkin’ crown first before you worry about getting your fantasy castle,” he whispers menacingly. He roughly grabs hold of Flynn’s collar and pulls him back.

“Wha-OW!” Flynn draws away and immediately goes to fix his disgruntled vest. “Watch it! This thing did not come cheap!”

“Do you think I _care_ how much your stupid vest cost?” Ron growls. “We’ve come this far, and Bry and I are _not_ risking you blowing this casket because the pretty ocean water caught your attention.”

“Hey!” Flynn lifts a finger. “In my defense, the ocean does have an oddly nice sparkle to it today.” Before he has the time to take another breath, he’s yanked forwards and is already having a lengthy piece of rope tied around his torso.

Flynn chooses to remain quiet, begrudgingly knowing the Stabbingtons all too well for their lack of self-control and uncontained anger. But he can’t help himself; cracking jokes to ease the mood is his cup of tea. It’s just the way he’s built. He shouldn’t be asked to change the person he is, even if the people asking are two knuckleheads who could break him in half right now if they ever so wanted.

His ode to silence doesn’t last long, as he finally looks down and catches a glimpse of the prize. The Stabbingtons do the same.

“Ready to cause a riot, gentlemen?” Flynn whispers lightheartedly. He holds in a grunt as Ron punches his arm. “Hey! I was _joking_.”

“Your jokes aren’t funny,” Ron grunts back. Brian nods his head in agreement.

Flynn feels himself being lifted ever so slightly into the air, with Brian doing the bidding, before being slowly maneuvered down into the small hole in the ceiling. In the matter of seconds, he’s dangling with nothing but a length of rope and two mindless idiots who currently hold his life in their hands. But Flynn isn’t worried, because while the Stabbington brothers lack in their mental capacity, they aren’t dumb enough to think they have any shot of surviving this should they screw up and let him fall.

While he hasn’t given his deepest attention to the country he currently stands in in his more recent past, he’d be naive to not have heard the rumors that surround its monarchy and way of rule. As the more common criminal folk tell, Corona’s ruler, their King - an imposing man by the name of Frederic Helmsworth - isn’t exactly known to be the _kindest_ when it comes to law-breaking, _thievery_ in general. Some say it’s because he still hasn’t gotten over the loss of his daughter, almost eighteen years exactly to the day, while others say he’s just a cold man who’s instated a cruel and unfair justice system that punishes even the smallest of rule-breakings because he finds a sense of joy in the pain of others.

So, one can only imagine what lies in store for Flynn and the Stabbington brothers should they fail in their attempt to steal Frederic’s _long lost daughter’s_ crown. One can only imagine the potential tirade and the ruthlessness that lays in wake for the trio should they get caught. And one can only imagine if Flynn and the Stabbington brothers are playing with the toys of their fate, and that with one wrong move, they’ll sentence themselves to a life behind bars or the ferocious alternative that many call _Hell_.

But, thankfully, their trio _won’t_ fail, because Flynn simply doesn’t know _how_ to.

And he’s not planning on this day being the one where he learns.

* * *

As he’s lowered into the grand throne room, Flynn’s vision expands. Immediately he notices the small group of guards standing at high-alert in front of the prize. He takes a deep breath, composing himself and his rising nerves, all while inwardly reminding himself who he is and that if anyone can pull this off without being caught, it’s him and him alone.

He holds his trusty satchel in his left hand as Ron and Brian, from above, slow his ascent until finally holding him still when the height becomes perfect.

And for the first time, Flynn hesitates. He pauses, staring awestruck at the fine piece of craftsmanship, his golden ticket to a better life that is laying just in arm’s reach. All he has to do is reach out and gently grab it before depositing it into his satchel as the Stabbington brothers pull him up and away to safety. The guards around him are clueless to the troubling situation they are in, that their most prized possession is mere seconds away from being whisked away into the unknown, never to be seen again.

But Flynn doesn’t move. He hangs still, his mind wandering into unknown space, unknown territory, indulging into feelings he’s never even known he was capable of having. He feels a small lump grow in his throat, a small pit in his stomach expanding as a rushing sensation of _guilt_ and _remorse_ come crashing through-

Wait.

That can’t be right.

Guilt? Remorse? Flynn doesn’t feel these things. Flynn's stronger than that. Flynn's never felt any guilt or remorse for anything in his life before, so why does he feel such feelings now, all of a sudden? He can’t be losing it in the prime of his career. That'd be disastrous for him.

No. This feeling has to be something… something else. This has to be some trick. Maybe his body is finally reacting to the lack of food he’s consumed since yesterday morning? That can’t be right, though. He’s gone days at times without a meal. His body is used to this type of maltreatment.

In the back of Flynn’s mind, deep behind barricades he’s built up through dealing with his own hardships and the abuse this life of treachery has brought him, the younger, poorer, homeless orphan boy named _Eugene Fitzherbert_ knows this feeling of guilt and remorse all too well. It’s why Flynn, albeit wishing otherwise, knows this feeling himself, despite proclaiming not to. No matter how much he’s changed, or matured, or grown since his days at the orphanage, no matter how much he tries to kill and forget the roots of his life that have brought him here, there will always be a small part of Flynn Rider that is occupied by the sad excuse known as Eugene Fitzherbert.

And that small part of him that is capable of feeling guilt and remorse is the one thing that screws everything up.

Flynn, having been in the air, lost in the chambers of his own very mind for a good thirty seconds now, feels a slight tug. Almost immediately, the feelings of guilt and remorse, stemming from memories of days left behind, vanish away into thin air as he’s brought back to reality.

But, for the splittest of seconds, he forgets where he is. And it is at this moment that one of the sad excuses of a guard sneezes.

And Flynn reacts.

Audibly.

“Gesundh-” His voice catches, his eyes widen, and he realizes his monumental screw-up as numerous armored heads and bodies turn his way.

There is a short, tense filled silence as Flynn and the group of guards stare at one another, unmoving. From above, Ron and Brian look at one another, perhaps in contemplation for their next move. Just as they are about to release their grip on the rope, Flynn jerks his arm, grabbing the crown and stuffing it in his satchel, moving like lightning before finally tugging on the rope, hissing to them to pull him up. Ron and Brian waste no more time, and with their combined strength, they slowly, yet easily, begin to pull Flynn back up to safety.

All the meanwhile, the few guards stationed in patrol of Corona’s most precious treasure steamroll themselves to right below their hatch.

“Hey, wait!” one calls out.

Some jeer similar remarks, while others simply curse him out.

Flynn pays no attention to any of them, though, except for the one whose halberd is thrown at him that he barely dodges. He immediately darts his eyes away from the culprit, barely missing the hate and anger that possess them.

All he thinks about now, as the Stabbingtons pull him up, is the potential feeling of rope being tied around his neck, and the life being forcefully tugged right out of him as the ground below falls away into nothingness.

Flynn's heart is racing.

Beating.

Pumping.

Running in circles, you could say.

And this is only the beginning of his problems.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation of the previous installment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I steamrolled right through this next installment with all the free time I've had today since posting the initial first chapter. I've seen a few people already leave kudos on this work, and I thank you for that! This idea is really interesting to me, and I find this style of dramatized writing to be my preferred cup of tea. Anyway, here's Chapter 2 of hopefully many more to come!
> 
> Also, comments and kudos are an author's bread and butter. If you find my story interesting, or enjoyed it at some point, feel free to leave a kudo and potentially a comment saying so! I'm open to constructive criticism as well, if that's your preference. I'm not someone who will ever demand people to react to my works, but I am honest when I say that they help greatly in the inspiration department.

The next few minutes after are but a blur to Flynn. He faintly recalls the anger and frustration in both Ron and Brian’s faces, the low threats they made against him as the patrol of guards down below frantically moved their way out of the throne room. He remembers pulling the two men away, intentionally not saying a single word or meeting their ferocious gazes head on, before leading them out and away from where they came.

That’s all he remembers, now, as he slows to a stop in front of a large tree in Corona’s dense forest. He's panting heavily, slowly trying to catch his breath. He doesn’t notice as Ron and Brian immediately run past him, only to stop some ways away to turn and stare him dead in the eyes. They are both out of breath, but much to his delight, more than he is.

“What the hell, Flynn!?” Ron hisses sharply between gasps. “What the _hell_ were you thinking-”

“Quiet!” Flynn retorts back, his voice strained. He straightens his back and stands up straight, his breathing now somewhat controlled, but not exactly. Given the weight of the situation at hand, it won’t get any better than this. “I need to think.” He lifts his hand up to his chin, gazing downwards. “I need time to think," he mumbles.

“We don’t _have_ any time to think!” Ron yells. He paces over near Flynn and pushes him to the side, revealing two wanted posters nailed into the tree. He points to his and Brian’s, which relays a perfectly sculpted portrait of their bulky features. Flynn’s eyes follow. “Because of _you_ hesitating, the entire guard of this scum country is following right behind our asses! Because _you_ screwed up, Rider!” He pushes Flynn roughly.

Flynn hates being pushed around like a ragdoll, especially when he’s on the verge of being able to order this imbecile around without any hesitation. Come this time a few months from now, he'll be having Ron lick the dirt off his shoe. Without thinking, he pushes Ron back. “Watch who you put your hands on, Ronnie! You’re talking to the future Baron of the crimeworld, and appointed heir to-be head chief of Vardaros, mind you.” 

He realizes by the end of his sentence how Ron and Brian could easily pummel him into oblivion right now if they ever so wanted, and it did appear to him as such that they were at-least contemplating it. But to his surprise, Ron chuckles darkly instead and takes a menacing step towards him. With the height difference, Flynn is forced to tilt his head upwards. 

“If I were you, I’d be worrying more about getting out of here alive instead of daydreaming about a little pipe dream,” Ron suggests. Brian snickers in the background.

Flynn gawks. A part of him is aware that he’s wasting precious time, but _no one_ insults him like this, especially when he’s on the verge of so much power and the potential that comes with it. “Pipe dream?” he asks. He lets out a humorless laugh. “A _pipe dream_ is the King of this _disgusting_ country thinking he ever has a _shot_ at getting his daughter back. A _pipe dream_ is this kingdom’s mindless citizens celebrating the life of a girl, praying to the heavens for her return despite her most likely being _dead_ , but on the short chance she isn’t, is _never_ coming back to them no matter how hard they wish otherwise.” Disdain, anger, _jealousy_ begin to fuel him as he takes a trembling breath, but he pushes those feelings away almost immediately, opting to take a short moment instead to let them die down on his inside, just as he’s always done.

Flynn, reluctantly, knows he is nothing more than a man. He’s close to perfect, yes, probably - no, _definitely_ closer than all those around him. But even the best of men have their faults, and Flynn knows that one of his is sometimes letting his emotions get the best of him.

After a few seconds of an agonizing silence, in which both of the Stabbington brothers stare him down, he stares back at Ron while re-opening his mouth. He speaks slowly and quieter with emphasis on each of his every word. “A _pipe dream_ is thinking that you and your brother have _any_ shot of getting out of here alive without _my_ help,” he says, an added bite of finality in his voice as it concludes. Flynn sees the look on Ron and Brian’s faces; he knows he’s right, as do they. The two of them are brutes, known purely for their strength, but even them paired together can’t take on a full battalion of armored guards. Smarts may not be their department of expertise, but they, like Flynn, have been living this life long enough to know one man’s own limits.

Before anyone has the chance to say another word, the sounds of a horse’s neigh fill Flynn’s ears. He turns sharply to the low cliff behind them, where a multitude of guards, all riding their respective steeds, stand before making their way back onto the path. Flynn notices one white horse that sticks out from the rest, and makes a mental note in his head to be careful around that one. He’s heard the rumors that this white horse in particular is, more likely than not, Corona’s guard captain’s prized ride, which means it’s obviously faster and stronger than the rest.

Life on the run has taught him to remember these things just in case.

Flynn begins to move away, but not before catching a glimpse of his own wanted poster for the first time. He takes a second to grimace at the awful way they depicted his nose, before ultimately swiping it away and jabbing it into the pocket of his satchel, which does still hold his golden ticket. He does so, for in his mind, the less of these that are hung up the better, even if they do make him appear unrecognizable.

Without wasting a second more, Flynn takes off and follows the Stabbington brothers deeper into the thickness of the forest.

* * *

He catches up to them in no time due to his smaller, more athletic frame. It’s less than a minute of running when they’re forced to come to a halt due to being surrounded by nothing but environmentally formed stone walls. 

A dead end.

“Alright, okay,” Flynn breathes, taking in their situation and how time is slowly ticking away. He glances up and sees the small overhang, then turns to the brothers. “New plan. Give me a boost, and I’ll pull you up.”

Ron and Brian glance at each other out of the corners of their eyes. “You’re trying to pull a fast one on us,” Ron accuses bluntly.

“This is not the time for baseless accusations!” Flynn retorts back hotly.

Ron shrugs, before then extending out his open right palm. “Okay. But give us the satchel first.”

Flynn's face drops. “Er... what?”

“You heard me.” Ron beckons Flynn with his fingers. “Hand it over.”

“I…” Flynn breathes, exasperated, and he dives into his minimal acting skills for this one. “After all this time we’ve spent together, you _still_ don’t trust me?” he asks despairingly. “I thought we were best buddies! Pals, friends!”

Their faces don’t move an inch.

“Ouch,” Flynn deadpans. He unhooks his satchel before dropping it into Ron’s open hand, cursing inwardly at the brothers’ inability to just let a man backstab them once in a while. It really shouldn’t be _this_ hard for them to simply let him keep the satchel, help him climb upon their backs and shoulders until he’s standing on-top the small ledge, which is when he’ll be waving them goodbyes and good riddance as he runs and leaves their dead weight in the ditch. 

Then, he’ll be able to make his triumphant hero’s return to Vardaros, _alone_ , as he’s always intended.

Ron and Brian move in position, but not before Ron hands the satchel over to his younger brother. Brian stands at the bottom, letting Ron rise onto his shoulders. They both aren’t looking at Flynn, and Brian, in particular, doesn’t notice or feel right away how his left side suddenly becomes lighter. 

Before Brian darts his head there, his attention is otherwise grabbed as Flynn begins his ascent upon their bodies. He is rough, intentionally so, and the brothers grunt oppositely as Flynn steps up and over them. Flynn eventually takes one final step, using Ron’s face as his own personal stool without a care in the world, as he finally grabs hold of the ledge and pulls himself fully up.

Flynn squats, then turning and darting his head down to look at them.

“Now help us up, pretty boy!” Ron commands. He moves his hand up as Brian finally looks to his left side, his eyes widening in realization.

Ron looks so foolish, Flynn thinks. He almost lets out a laugh at how goofy Ron looks, so clearly convinced he’s in a position of control, despite his fate having been sealed already. “Sorry,” Flynn finally says, his voice composed in a cool, yet slightly vindictive, tone. He lifts up the satchel, giving them a cocky grin. “My hands are full.”

Ron’s eyes widen. “Wha-huh?” He looks down to Brian, who simply stares at Flynn with wide eyes.

Flynn gestures at his own neck. “I know your brother is a little lacking in the _speech_ department right about now, but I think he’s trying to say, like you so thoughtfully predicted, Ronnie, that I was planning on pulling a fast one on the both of you." He grins and looks at the satchel in his left hand. "And it looks like 'Baron' Flynn Rider has succeeded in doing so." He turns back and winks at them, before giving one final salute of his right hand. "Have fun with the guards, boys!"

With that little turn of the tides completed, Flynn is off and running without even sparing them another glance. He hears the disgruntled growl of Ron Stabbington, the faint call of his chosen last name in the now distance as he furthers himself away from their small predicament. Flynn knows he doesn’t need any more enemies than the numerous he has right now, but he’s been edging himself lately to finally get rid of those two brainless lunks. And now that he finally has, there is truly nothing left that stands in his way of ensuring limitless power to his name and future.

Or so he thinks.

He stops for a second at a sharp turn, and out of the corner of his eye he sees them down a hill. Five guards, the same few he saw atop the hillside near the tree where he first stopped, all with crossbows raised that most certainly hold arrows with his name etched into their wooden exterior.

Flynn takes off into a new sprint in the opposite direction. Behind the raging beat of his heart, his loud, quickened breaths, he hears the neighs and jeers of the guards as they follow close behind. He can barely make out one voice that raises above all, presumably the guard captain.

“Retrieve the Princesses' crown at any cost!” the voice commands. 

Flynn gulps, but keeps his pace and his gaze straight ahead. He stumbles a bit, but is able to retrieve his footing before sliding down and under a fallen log, Five arrows whiz their way into the outside exterior of the log, and he looks down at them for a split second with widened eyes before continuing his escape. 

The guards jump over the log with ease, and Flynn hears them slowly inching closer. He’s acutely aware of the fact that they’re all on horseback while he’s confined to his own two legs, and that unless he’s able to create some kind of diversion or dive away into some smaller, more confined territory, he’s all but a dead man. And oddly enough, now, his most dire moment, is when he begins to regret betraying and leaving the Stabbingtons like he did. Surely him and the two brutes weren’t _much_ as a unit, lacking in the familiarity with one another that's necessary to form a capable force, but they could _at-least_ hold a fighting chance, three against five, despite the five’s leading edge in the numbers, weaponry and defense categories. That particular situation definitely would’ve been much better than the one he currently finds himself in, a one against five, that’s for sure.

Much to Flynn’s luck, thankfully, after making another decisive turn, dodging some arrows aimed at his head and chest in the meantime, he spots his saving grace. His head down, eyes fixated on the spot in the winding tree, he jumps through the small opening.

For a few seconds, he thinks he’s home free. He continues his fast paced run, purely for precautionary reasons, but he lets his mind wander onto more graceful thoughts. Like his future castle in Vardaros, and how he’ll never have to worry about having enough to eat at night, or a bed to sleep in, or a roof over his head once he gets this stupid crown back to the Baron and his own bride to be, Stalyan.

He blinks, and oddly enough, much to his surprise he still hears the hooves of a horse pounding against the dirt trail beneath his boots. That’s when he turns his head ever so slightly to the side, and out of the corner of his eye he catches a glimpse of the very same white horse he pointed out to himself from earlier. The _guard captain’s_ horse.

Rats. 

Flynn returns his gaze forward, ignoring the menacing look of the guard captain himself as the older man speaks to the steed, something Flynn can’t make out over the sound of his own breathing. He sees a vine, and with one large step onto a rock that’s poking out of the uneven terrain, he pushes himself up and into the air, using his forward momentum. He angles himself towards the tree that the vine bears from, and with a strong push of his legs, he throws himself in a spiral motion around its exterior. He acts out of pure instinct as he sees the backside of the guard captain and his horse come into view just as he’s just about to complete his turn.

The next thing Flynn knows, he’s stationed on-top the white horse. Running on a pure adrenaline high while ignoring the voices in his head yelling and screaming at him to get off the damn animal, he grabs hold of its reins. He jeers it forward, in what he calls his encouraging voice, before he’s promptly jerked forward and into the back of its mane as it comes to a halt.

Flynn collects himself and looks up to the horse as it turns its head his way, and he fails to notice the way its pupils menacingly tighten. His adrenaline high still running its course, he re-grabs the reins, grunting and kicking the side of its saddle. “C’mon, ya fleabag. Forward, forward!”

The horse’s eyes dart to the satchel he holds in his right hand.

“You’re the captain’s horse, for God’s sake. You really can't follow a simple command-” Flynn’s voice catches when he finally sees where the horse’s eyes are, and the next thing he knows, he’s partaking in a mighty game of tug and war with the stinking animal. All the meanwhile, in his mind, he tries to comprehend how a _horse_ can be so self aware and acute to its surroundings. He doesn’t notice the eventual reality of the overarching leaves and branches of the trees above suddenly dissipating into a bright, blue noon sky.

But he _does_ notice how his satchel is suddenly lurched away from his hands, up and away to the nearby cliffside, where it lands gracefully on the smallest of branches of a tree that’s extended outward and over the endless abyss of the beneath. 

Flynn and the horse exchange a quick glance, before Flynn makes the first move, jumping forward. What next ensues is a race against time, with the fate of his future in the balance. The next few seconds consist of both Flynn and the horse trying to sidetrack one another in their short pursuit of the prized possession, the crown of the long lost Princess of Corona, which hangs in balance, threatening to be whisked down away into the abyss, potentially to never be seen again.

Both parties, Flynn _and_ the horse, who singlehandedly represents all that is Corona, have everything to lose.

Flynn, without the crown, cannot prove his worth to Baron of being his chosen heir. Of course, not having the crown also means he can't marry Stalyan, either, but that doesn't matter as much to him. She's always been a stepping stool to Flynn, someone he's seen as a way to get himself closer to the Baron in hopes of one day being in this exact spot he finds himself in, minus the cliff, the horse, and the five guards who are surely collecting themselves, of course. Stalyan is like a summer fling to Flynn. He doesn't care about her, not because he doesn't want to, but because he _can't_. The girl is _obsessed_ with him, completely heads-over-heels _in love_ with him, and Flynn is simply incapable of reciprocating those types of feelings. Someone like him, the situations he's been in, the things he has seen, the way his soul has been _hardened_ and _darkened_ by the lowest scum of society, has him _convinced_ that he's _incapable_ of feeling the love, the same love that Stalyan holds for him, for _anyone_ , not just her. He's taught himself that attachment is wrong, that attachments are simply tools his enemies can use against him. He's taught himself that any and all attachments, especially the romantic ones, lead to nothing but pain, sadness, and despair. There's no such thing as having a soulmate to Flynn, nor is there such a concept as true love, or a happy ending. Stories of true love and happy endings are fictions told by those who have been manipulated and hypnotized by their higher-ups into thinking that the world is all fun and games. But it isn't. The world _isn't_ all fun and games, and Flynn knows this too well.

On the other hand, in losing the crown, Corona loses the final piece of its fractured heart. The one item that remains, and has since become a beacon of hope to all its citizens that one day, _one day_ , their lost Princess would return home and reclaim what was so _wrongfully_ stolen from her. King Frederic and Queen Arianna, too caught up in their own despair, never decided upon having a second child. And they have been unmoving in the lieu of the the suggestions and reminders from nobles, councils, advisors, even their own citizens at some points, from all around that time is running thin for there to be an heir to their throne once their time on this planet comes to an end. But the King and Queen simply cannot bear having another child when their firstborn is potentially still out there, somewhere, living the life her kidnapper has chosen for her. Their daughter's, Princess Eleanor's, crown represents the last line of hope they have. Only in the week leading up, and on the day of her birthday, do they have it out displayed in their throne room. Each and every morning of the week leading up, and on the day of Eleanor's birthday, do they wake up in unison and walk their way to the room where they do their bidding, holding onto this thread of hope that when they arrive, they'll see the purple pillow laying lonesome, with their daughter's beautiful form standing next to it, her crown donned on-top her head after having finally returned home. But for the past eighteen years, they've opened the doors to their throne room to not see their grown-up daughter in all her beauty, but to see a group of guards standing tall and alert, with their daughter's crown still laying gracefully, alone, on-top its purple pillow, forever unmoving.

Both parties have everything to _lose_ , but only one has everything to _gain_. And that's where the difference lies between the two.

Somehow, Flynn finds himself climbing under the tree, hanging on for dear life as the horse begins to stomp and stomp away, aiming at hitting his own two bare hands. Flynn darts his head back, his heart clenching as he sees the satchel ever so slowly drift downward, closer to the empty abyss. For a second, he thinks all is lost. Acting in fear, he stammers his way closer to the branch. He hangs onto the large wooden mass with his one bare hand, as the satchel drifts closer downwards, until finally losing any and all friction it has left.

It begins to fall. With it tumbles Flynn’s hopes and dreams, his aspirations, everything he’s ever wanted and all that he’s worked so hard to build and make possible…

All gone. In the blink of an eye, everything is lost. His future, Corona's heart; it all falls away.

 _Except it doesn't_. At-least, _his future_ doesn't, because this is Flynn _freakin’_ Rider we’re talking about here. The swashbuckling rogue, soon to be richest man alive if all goes to plan. Someone who isn’t that bad with the ladies either, of course. He doesn’t know _how_ to fail. The word isn't in his vast vocabulary. His middle name, for crying out loud, is 'Succeed'! Flynn Succeed Rider!

Okay, so maybe that last one is a lie, but regardless, Flynn Rider does not fail. With one climatic swoosh of his hand, he grabs the leather strap of his satchel, mouthing an ‘Ah-ha!’ while eyeing the still surprisingly self aware white horse. He sees the quick look of shock rise in the eyes of the steed, and he knows that _it_ knows that the game is all but over, that _he's_ won, that the crown is _his_ and no one else's.

 _His_ future: **sealed**.

Corona's heart: **broken**. But he doesn't care about that. Why would he?

Flynn Rider does not fail.

.

.

.

The tree then snaps.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation of the previous installment. For potential trigger warning purposes, I feel it's necessary to state that the main character is dealing with a type of a mental breakdown in this chapter. Take that as you may.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really starting to dive into some heavy stuff here... and I wouldn't blame you if some parts of this are confusing to understand. I'm trying to illustrate a very real struggle going on in the head of our main character, and I've found this as an interesting way to do so.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy this next installment!

There’s something oddly calming about being in a free-fall.

Something that Flynn can’t quite put his finger on. Is it, perhaps, the feeling of being weightless for the first time in his life that makes it this way? Maybe. Or is it because falling from a high height is enough of a distraction to take Flynn away from the nagging thoughts and emotions he’s found himself fighting more and more recently?

Flynn may never know why, and truthfully, that’s fine with him. Life-related questions like these are the ones with no real conclusive or definite answer. Trying to find answers to questions such as this one, for example, lead to nothing but wasted time. Time that could be used on more productive expeditions, like stealing food from the local market so he can feed himself, but more importantly, the younger orphans, for instance.

 _Where did_ that _come from?_

Flynn chooses not to continue digging into this philosophical topic, and instead, lets himself fall back into reality as he exchanges a glance with the annoying and too-pesky-and-sentient-for-its-own-wellbeing white furred horse. He then turns his head downward, and the direness of his situation triumphantly sinks in as he finally notices the strange pointy rock that… they’re heading... straight... towards...

Oh no.

All of a sudden, Flynn is terrified. A feeling he’s not at all used to, and in his one moment of weakness, he lets himself react. He lets down his guard, and all the pent up conflict - the multitude of emotions he’s pushed further and further away over the years - everything he’s worked so hard to destroy and burn and forget… it all bursts out of him in these few seconds before his demise. 

He yells. 

He screams. 

He lets his eyes dampen with ferocious tears on the coming horizon, just begging to be freed from their burning cage... and for the first time in too many years that he’s since lost count of, he does not care. He _does not_ care if he’s showing weakness, if the poor orphan boy named Eugene Fitzherbert has been let out of the cage that is his mind and promptly is allowed to take another breath. He is about to die. None of that matters anymore. _Nothing_ matters anymore. All Flynn thinks about is how he'd give anything and everything to be on flat ground again. He’d give up the crown, he’d give up his status as Baron’s heir if it meant him living another day.

Because _that_ matters. It always has and always will.

Living, breathing; as long as his heart races, beats, pumps and jumps and runs in circles, everything will be okay. 

As long as Flynn is alive, there is _hope_. _H_ _ope_ that one day the pain will go away, that the burden of his heart will lessen in some capacity. _Hope_ that he can eventually learn to live with himself for becoming this _monster_ who has forgotten the ideals and beliefs of the man he once was, a man that _does_ care and _is_ capable of reciprocating and _giving_ love to those who want it. 

As long as Flynn is alive, there is _hope_. _Hope_ that he can one day make amends to all the people he’s hurt throughout his life. _Hope_ that he can grow to forgive himself for stealing the last known possession of not a Princess, but a _Daughter_ , who, whether alive or dead, still has two parents that will grieve for her not just now but for the rest of eternity.

He wishes he had that growing up. Maybe if he had two parents who actually cared, he’d never be in this spot, free-falling to his death next to a horse he barely knows as the rock nears ever so closer. Maybe he’d never have grown up to be the _monster_ he is today. That’s a funny ‘what-if’ scenario: _What if Flynn Rider had two people in his life who actually gave a single damn about him?_

The answer: Flynn Rider wouldn’t even exist.

There is still _hope_ , Flynn mentally tells himself, despite his inner conflict saying otherwise. As long as there is _hope_ , there is a light at the end of this tunnel called his life. As long as there is _hope_ , there is still an endless amount of _time_ that is left at his disposal, _time_ that he can use to change his ways and become better and make up for all the lives he has ruined due to his own selfish ways.

_Time is ticking, though, Flynn._

Everything will be okay, he mentally continues, though deep down he knows this won’t be the case. He ignores the voice that tells him such because for one time in his life, he wants to have a light to look towards. Everything will be okay as long as there is still _hope_ , he opts to think instead. As long as he continues to live, there is still _hope_ , and as long as there is still _hope_ , everything will be okay. He can continue to live as long as everything is okay.

_Time is ticking, Flynn._

But things are never really okay, are they? And is he _living_ , or is he just _surviving_? Is there actually any _hope_ at all?

_The rock is getting closer, Flynn._

He may never know the answers to these questions, and truthfully, that’s fine with him. He doesn’t care. There are more important things for him to worry about, there are other worthy occupations to focus on with what-

_Time is almost out, Flynn._

_-time_ he has left.

_The rock is almost here, Flynn._

Except it _isn’t_ fine with him, nor will it _ever_ be. Except that he’s _always_ cared. Except that there _aren’t_ more important things for him to worry about, except that there _aren’t_ any other worthy occupations to focus on with what-

_Time has run out, Flynn._

- _time_... he has...

_The rock is here, Flynn._

Flynn is thrown out of his thoughts as he’s sent tumbling through the air. He didn’t notice when and how the rock split the large mass of his and the horse’s tree branch in half, simply because he was too busy locking the poor orphan boy named Eugene Fitzherbert back into the cages of his mind. 

Flynn _hopes_ that this is the time that it’s for good, that his efforts aren't in vain. Flynn _hopes_ that this is the last time Eugene Fitzherbert will ever be seen or heard from again.

_Why?_

But for some reason, a small part of Flynn holds onto a glimmer of _hope_ that this isn’t the case, that Eugene is not gone forever. This small part of Flynn _hopes_ that Eugene is able re-emerge one day but for _good_ this time.

_ Why?  _

Huh?

_ Why? Flynn does not know.  _

But he does...

_ Why? Flynn may never know. _

But he does!

_ Why? Flynn will never know. _

But he does know why! He knows that only when he accepts who he truly is, that his name is Eugene Fitzherbert and he is a man who has been broken down and beaten to the verge of death by society because of his compassion and care and affections for others around him who are less fortunate... he knows that only when he truly accepts these facts that he can finally begin to heal the wounds of his charred heart and make amends to anything and everything, anyone and everyone, he has ever hurt through ignoring his own pain, sorrow, and suffering!

_Why?_

Don't you dare ignore me now. Not after all this. No.

_And truthfully,_

No! 

_that's fine_

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

_ with **Flynn**. _

.

.

.

But it isn't... nor will it ever be, no matter how many times you tell yourself otherwise, _Flynn_.

* * *

Flynn does not die. Not here, not now, not yet.

His time to perish has not come, much to his relief. Falling off a cliff is a pretty lame way to go, he muses silently. He’d much rather have a warrior’s death, going out fighting, preferably for a cause he believes in. In all actuality, Flynn would take most other near-death scenarios over the one he found himself in just some seconds prior.

Falling off a cliff... with an increasingly annoying, too-humanlike horse as the last living creature he lays his eyes on.

Yeesh. He prays inwardly that the sucker kicked the boot, because he has a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach that this is only the beginning of his problems with that irritating fart-face if it survived.

At the end of all this, Flynn is glad that whoever writes the rules and laws of fate has given him another shot at this weird concept called living. If there's one thing you shouldn't misconstrue about him, it's that he's ungrateful for those pay him his rights and dues. He's all about honor and giving back to those who deserve it, if that hasn't been made clear by now.

Unless their last name is Stabbington, apparently.

Anywho.

He makes a mental note to send whoever pulled some strings up there to save his life a ‘thank you’ card once he’s back home in Vardaros. Yes, you heard that right. To him, this is not an _if_ he makes it back type of scenario. It is _when_ he makes it back, because that’s what his goal is. And Flynn Rider never fails in accomplishing his goals, for reminder’s sake. Not now, not ever. Nope. Nada. Zip.

His body aches, though. There’s no question about that. If the cost of being able to live another day means dealing with a few hours of aching muscles, that’s a deal Flynn takes ten out of ten times. He winces slightly when he finally stands up before taking a quick few seconds to test and stretch out all his joints, muscles, bones and ligaments. Thankfully he finds there to be nothing broken and nothing too badly bruised to the point where he can’t move without falling over. 

His luck seems to be turning around, he muses lightheartedly. Things are starting to look up in Riderville.

The next thing on his agenda is surveying his surroundings. There isn’t anything too special about where he is, the middle of a forest that bears lots of trees and scattered mossy rocks every here and there. He only knows parts about the area he’s currently in, though, but that’s okay. He’s always been a feasible natural navigator, and despite being some ways away from the path he knows by heart, he should be alright. As long as that stupid horse died, he should be in the clear.

This is approximately when Flynn turns his head and spots the horse laying face down on the ground, its eyes closed and body unmoving. His heart, responding to the beautiful sight, skips a beat.

The horse then opens its eyes and snorts grass out of its nostrils. His heart, responding to the hideous sight, promptly falls.

Flynn jumps behind the nearest stone he sees out of the corner of his eye, which resides in front of a small yet bumpy, rock-filled hill formation that has leafy vines falling down its front. His since calming heartbeat is thrown into a new overdrive, and he works strenuously hard to keep his breathing low and at bay. 

From the short time he’s spent with this horse, he’s noticed two things. One, that it bears a different fur color than the rest, and two, it’s way too sentient for its own good. He’s never seen or interacted with a horse that’s been so well trained to the point where he had to _literally_ fight and claw his way off and away from it in order to just get to safety.

So, even though it’s an animal and not a human, Flynn is not testing his luck. That’s another lesson he’s learned from being on the run for all these years: never take things, people, or animals for that matter, for granted. His position in life requires him to almost always be on high alert, something he has grown accustomed to over time. Flynn’s also had a lot of practice in stealth missions like this one, so this comes rather easily to him once he gets himself into the right headspace. But still, that doesn’t mean he’s all that _comfortable_ being in these situations. Who would be? Someone insane, probably.

.

.

.

Flynn isn’t insane.

.

.

.

He barely hears the horse at first as it jumps to attention. He kneels and stays still, breathing low and quiet. He hears the faint noises it makes as it begins to survey its surroundings, before lowering its muzzle to the ground and beginning to sniff his scent. His heart clenches. He hears the horse's sniffing as it inches closer and closer and, for a second, he thinks he’s done for. He thinks all is lost.

The sound suddenly grows quieter.

And quieter.

Until there is nothing but silence and ensurement.

_Flynn Rider never fails._

* * *

Slowly, Flynn pokes his head out from his spot behind the massive mossy rock. He scans his surroundings and, when he doesn’t see any sign or trace of the horse, he stands up. Out of protective instinct, he throws the strap of his satchel back over his shoulder, but not before checking it quickly to see if his golden ticket is still there. It is. He breathes a sigh of relief and begins to move backwards, darting his head and eyes from side to side, continuing to look for any signal that the horse is just waiting for him to out himself to make its move.

Much to his relief, the horse appears to be gone. But that doesn’t mean the coast is clear, that now’s the time for him to finally decide to test his luck. There’s too much on the line for that.

Flynn continues to backpedal, and knowing he’s nearing the back, vine-covered wall, he extends his hand. He expects to feel something hard and cold, a firm surface he can lean and stay close to as he moves forward, but instead, he feels nothing. Nothing except the sensation of the leaves as they trail up his hand, his wrist, until eventually encasing his entire right arm.

Flynn stumbles to his right, grunting, before barely saving himself from falling over. He immediately swings back the line of leaves, revealing a small, dark little opening.

Somewhere in the distance, the horse neighs.

Flynn reacts as any sensible, charming, devilishly handsome criminal on the run from a clinically insane horse would: he pulls the line of leaves back even further before swiftly darting himself into the small opening.

Darkness immediately fills his entire line of vision except for a small, faint light in the near vicinity towards the back of this small cavern, or cave, or hole; whatever it is, he doesn't care. Flynn pays no attention to this light at first, for he hears the horse’s neigh grow louder in sound and that’s where his current priorities lay. He jumps in response and stands back-first against one of the stone walls, holding onto his satchel for dear life, as he hears the thump of the horse jumping to the spot where he stood just seconds prior. He hears the sounds of its deep breathing, the way the air swooshes as it darts his head back and forth, backward and forward, as if it smells his scent and knows that his trail dies in that very spot but he, for some peculiar reason, isn’t there or anywhere else in the nearby area that it can see or make out. 

Flynn hears the horse let out a disgruntled growl, and tilting his head to the side, he’s able to see the outline of its shadow just behind the leafy wall. He holds his breath, watching as the dark representation of the horse shakes its head before dropping its muzzle to the ground once again so it can continue its hunt.

It then begins to walk forward, off and away.

Flynn stands still for a few seconds more, fighting the burning sensation that’s begun to take hold of his chest and throat as the horse’s faint and quiet footsteps slowly fall away and transform into the quiet breeze and chirps some birds make in the distance.

He exhales.

He’s safe… for now.

Not wanting to take the risk of going back out there with the potential of this being a trap, because, again, that horse is _way too smart and self-aware for its own good_ , Flynn decides to return his attention to the odd light that resides in the back rear end of his small cavern, or cave, or hole-

He squints his eyes before finally making the decision to tramp his way closer, suspecting there to be some kind of end to this, perhaps a miniscule opening in the forest that he can make his escape in.

Flynn begins a slow jog towards the beginning of the light. He turns his head back while doing such, still slightly paranoid about the horse, before finally returning his gaze ahead.

Everything in his world pauses when he does so.

He was expecting something ordinary with trees and vines and rocks… something like the forest he’s been cursed to for the past fifteen to twenty minutes of his life. A means or sign of where he might be so he can better formulate his escape plan to get away from that stupid, annoying horse and back to Vardaros.

But he doesn’t get that.

Instead, he gets something else. Something that causes his eyes to go wide, his chest to tighten, his breath to hitch in his throat, his arms to dangle aimlessly and his legs to freeze to the ground below. 

What he gets, what he stares at in the short distance away is nothing short of… of...

Remarkable.

At this very moment, his mind is only capable of saying one word. One breathless, awe-filled, amazement-stocked word that’s lonesome able to describe his current mental state. _One word that depicts what he knows to be true, that Flynn Rider never fails, that Flynn Rider has won the game, and the mega prize that comes with it, once again._

One word. One _extremely_ quiet word.

.

.

.

“Wow.”


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation of the previous installment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we have chapter 4! For those unaware, this isn't my first go-around with attempting to write fanfiction. What I've noticed in my short time writing in this genre is that sometimes quality is better than quantity, and I'm using that a a mental guideline for myself when it comes to writing this piece. Everything up to this point has been mostly rising action, the calm before the storm, you could say, so there hasn't been much in terms of length and word count in comparison to other stories you may have read/are currently reading. But I'm doing this intentionally because I would much rather write a more compelling, complex chapter that is shorter than a longer one that lacks in telling a unique and interesting story. Also, I find this way of writing to be far easier and less strenuous, so that doesn't hurt my case, either. Anyway, that's enough from me for now. I hope you enjoy this next installment!

Flynn doesn’t know how long he’s been standing there, staring at the mystical tower that lays some distance away in this canyon-like valley he now finds himself encased by. Seconds, minutes, hours... he doesn’t know, or care for that matter, about the exact amount of time that has passed. His mind is currently elsewhere, fixated on the sight that beholds him from where he stands.

There’s just something... magical about it, about this place he’s only now just stepped in for the first time... something he can’t quite put his finger on. He doesn’t really... _k_ _now_ how to explain what he’s experiencing... like, at all. But that doesn’t mean he won’t try to, because Flynn isn’t one to back down from a challenge.

But he does offer a warning that what’s to come... _might_ be a little messy.

In basic terms, one minute he’s hiding behind a mossy rock as a crazy horse tries to track his scent so it can find and, presumably, pummel him into the ground before receiving a handsome reward of whatever-the-hell horses eat these days, and the next, he’s standing here, alone, now seemingly a part of the puzzle that is this vast beautiful piece of open, yet enclosed, land that feels as if it _itself_ is just a _smaller_ piece of an even _larger_ puzzle that is merely an even _smaller_ piece of a whole different world the human race has yet to even come _close_ to comprehending or exploring and-

Okay.

Wow.

Breathe.

Just... just breathe. Go ahead, feel free to take a second to let that sink in.

.

.

.

Yeah.

What Flynn’s _trying_ to say... is that he feels as if he’s now in a whole different world, a _new_ world filled with mystery and wonder. A world that contains so many surprises around each and every corner that are just _begging_ to be discovered or unearthed. 

Lost in this moment of reflection and mental exploration, Flynn is thrown back to a time that has yet since passed, a time where he once thought that there was no such thing as the impossible, that if he just put his mind to something, _anything_ , he could single-handedly make the claimed impossible... possible. A time where he read his favorite book to the smaller children at the orphanage, a story of a man, his _hero_ , who showed him that it was possible to make the impossible… possible.

Flynn’s been experiencing a lot of these ‘first time in a while’ moments as of late, and the most irritating thing about it all is that he doesn’t know _why_ . Everything that’s happened up to this point in his life has been relatively normal, at-least to his standards. So _why_ is he all of a sudden feeling as if he’s losing his mind? _Why_ does he feel as if he’s going insane? Are his nerves finally getting to him? Is this merely a sign from the heavens that going through with the crown heist was a mistake, that he was just simply never meant to be the next Baron of the crime world and head-chief of the city-state Vardaros?

Or is this all just a sign... a sign that it’s finally time he faces his fears. A sign that whoever makes the decisions around his fate thinks it’s time he finally renounces himself as Flynn Rider and admit to the world who he really is, a man by the name of-

_No._

_No. He won’t be doing that._

_Eugene Fitzherbert is dead. Gone, long forgotten from years past... nothing more than a memory. A memory that Flynn Rider has taken full and utter control of. A memory that is just that… a memory. A memory that has since been left in the past._

_Flynn Rider is all that remains in place of this memory. Flynn Rider reigns supreme as a king, a prophet, and Baron’s proclaimed ‘chosen one’ who stands on-top the very same hill that Eugene Fitzherbert, a peasant, an orphan, a weakling, once fell from._

_All Eugene Fitzherbert did was fail, while all Flynn Rider does is succeed._

_There is nothing comparable between the two. There is no more Eugene Fitzherbert. There is only Flynn Rider, and that’s the way it’ll be for now and until the day he dies. Besides, if he’s being more realistic and honest, with all things considered, Flynn Rider is a better and more capable man than Eugene Fitzherbert ever was, in all aspects of life._

Except he's not. Except that Eugene Fitzherbert is not dead.

Flynn feels a faint smile tug at his lips at that thought, ~~even though it is the furthest thing from the truth,~~ before eventually letting it dissipate when he remembers that his questions still have not been answered.

Why _does_ he feel as if he’s losing his mind?

He sighs.

“I don’t know...” he whispers, eyes still locked on the tower and nothing else. He shakes his head and licks his dried lips, never diverting his focus. “And I don’t care,” he now mumbles defiantly, speaking none other than to himself, but in such a way that is so, so, _easily_ interpretable as him trying to convince himself that this is true despite knowing otherwise.

_ Except it is. _

He takes a deep breath and shakes his head more vigorously this time. 

_When done with cleansing his mind of these toxic and traitorous thoughts,_ ~~thoughts that actually aren't toxic or traitorous one bit,~~ _Flynn wipes the strewn strands of hair out of his face. He is not satisfied with his handmanship, so he takes out his specialized Flynn Rider comb he stole some years past. This comb he holds is from a time he wishes,_ ~~yet doesn't,~~ _he’d forget just so this can all finally end, just so he can finally move on with his life._

_Yeah. He doesn’t care._

Except he does.

_No, he doesn't._

Yes, he does. And he needs to stop denying it.

_Where... where is this attitude coming from?_

You know where.

After concluding that he is finally satisfied with his hair, Flynn directs his attention back to the tower ahead. The structure that is some distance away is truly a magnificent sight, he allows himself to think, but not without a certain ulterior motive in the wings. He’s seen his share of towers, being the rogue adventurer he is, but never before has he been in such a large, secluded and hidden area that’s in the middle of the vast, dense wilderness.

His mind wanders into dark territory, fixating itself on the one detail he’s so keenly observed: This tower is hidden. Intentionally, might he add. It is no coincidence that whoever decided to build the structure picked this location, this large canyon-like valley that he assumes is only accessible through the very entrance he stumbled upon by mistake. For whatever reason it was built here in such a hidden spot, he does not know, nor does he care. And for once, this is the actual truth, but the primal fact of it all remains evident:

This. tower. is. _hidden_... and it’s in a damn good spot, too. 

As if on cue, the stupid horse lets out a faint cry from some way’s away. Flynn jerks his head back, pausing. This serves as a reminder to him that he’s, very much so, still being hunted and that there’s a perfectly placed, secluded, and most certainly vacated tower in the middle of nowhere that’s prime for the taking. He assumes it’s unoccupied because of how disheveled the outside walls are with different variants of moss and earth he presumes to have already seeped through its exterior into whatever lies on the inside.

_Yeah. There’s no chance someone currently lives here. Why would they? It looks completely unkept and it's in the middle of nowhere! Who would want to live this far away from society? A psychopath, maybe. Or a loner. Flynn's never met any psychopaths or loners._

Except he has, because he himself is one. And it all started when he let down his guard during that fall.

_But on the off-hand that someone does live here... then, well, Flynn will handle it. Because that’s what Flynn does._

He can grow to become better, though, but only when he accepts who he truly is.

_Everything’s going to be alright, Flynn concludes, as he finally takes his first step towards his new sanctuary._

Keep telling yourself that. You can go on and keep ignoring me while you're at it, too. I hope you know that I'm not going away until he gets this fixed.

_Everything's going to be alright._

.

.

.

All the meanwhile, a blonde-haired, green-eyed seventeen that-is-soon-to-be-eighteen year old girl whom Flynn has never, ever met, sits on the inside of _his_ so-called ‘sanctuary’. She is terrified, afraid for her life because she caught a glimpse of someone other than her mother entering the valley her small towerly home resides in. Faint, yet vivid, auditory memories fill her ears, warnings about ruffians and thugs with pointy teeth that are out to steal her hair. The main room of the tower that she sits in is completely dark and filled to the brim with a deadly, eerie silence that could cut through even the sharpest of diamonds.

In her hands, behind her whitened knuckles, she clenches a lone frying pan as her weapon of choice should this intruder decide to make himself known to her. She has said weapon because while she’s afraid of this... this _ruffian_ , whoever he may be, she will _not_ allow herself to go down without a fight. Maybe she’ll even be able to prove to her mother that she is capable of _defending_ herself, that she can _take care_ of herself. Perhaps then her mother will finally give permission and allow her to leave their tower, to go see the floating lights that appear in the sky each year on her birthday.

So, yeah. Everything’s going to be _quite_ alright for Mr. Rider.

* * *

The first thing Flynn does is scope out the area. In his momentary trance, he completely ignored the scenic and calming waterfall in the near distance just behind the tower. He’s always enjoyed waterfalls, and water in general, so the fact the valley his new sanctuary resides in has one that’s so close is pleasing to him. It provides a calming aftereffect to his growing nerves, a remedy to his aching body and exasperated heart that’s been through too much today for it to only be around noon.

The next thing Flynn does is make his way around the tower in a complete circle. He does so looking for its entrance, but to his dismay, it appears to be lacking one. The entire base of the tower’s exterior is encased by bushes and leaves all alike, so he had to check through feeling his way around it to the best of his ability. He even went around a second time, hoping that he had just missed it the first one.

But he didn’t, to his chagrin, yet oddly enough, delight as well.

_Flynn Rider never misses key details unless they just aren’t present,-_

Except he does, sometimes, because he isn't perfect.

- _and the fact that this tower lacks a ground entrance is more than enough to calm his growing concerns that someone might actually be living here. Because a tower that has no entrance cannot be a home. It can only be a tower._

For once, I actually agree with you.

Flynn contemplates looking around the valley for a potential secret entrance, just to be sure, thinking back to where he came in from and if he had barely missed one due to his eagerness to get away from the horse. But looking around this vast valley could take hours, and Flynn doesn’t have hours. He’s on a tight schedule, having promised Baron he’d be back by a certain time, two weeks from now _at the latest_. And Baron isn’t the type of man to take kindly to those who aren’t timely in their missions, even if those people are on his good side like Flynn is. _Especially_ when he's being lenient with what time he gives.

Besides, Flynn only plans on staying here temporarily for a good thirty minutes to an hour until he’s finally confident the stupid horse has buggered off. So, knowing his own self-inflicted limits, he decides then that the only way he’s entering the structure is through the lone window that resides at its very top.

There’s just one issue: He’d have to free-climb his way up to it, and while Flynn often likes to honk his own horn when it comes to the topic of his athleticism, he knows that, once again, he is nothing more than a man who has limits.

_He has no limits._

He also knows that his body has been through a week long’s set of abuse on just this very day, and that one wrong move could be enough to seal his fate for good this time.

_Flynn Rider never fails._

It is in this moment that Flynn takes a breather, a minute to just step back from it all and relax. He moves his satchel closer before unhooking its strap from his shoulder. He opens it and takes the crown out and, for the first time since snatching it, is able to fully examine it with close-up eyes. It is a fine piece of craftsmanship, truly fit for a head of royalty, he acknowledges, with three large gemstones in its front, the largest one in the middle. About a hundred or so smaller jewels, beads, and pearls are encrusted into its intricate designs that lace all the way around its golden band.

_It’s really a shame he has to hand this over to Baron. This crown could make him a lot of money on the black market._

Except he wouldn't ever be able to live with himself if he sold it.

_But, on the bright side, at-least handing it over to Baron means he has the man’s permission to marry his daughter, Stalyan, which in turn means he can finally be certified as the heir to the estate._

Bright side. Ha.

_This is more of a slower man’s game, Flynn knows, but the results that are yet to come will be more than worth it in the long run._

Okay. Let's see how that works out for him.

_Flynn takes a few more seconds to fully examine his new prized golden ticket before moving to place it back in his satchel. Just as he does so, he finally notices the presence of two feather-ended arrows laying at the very bottom. He furrows his brows in bewilderment. He doesn’t carry arrows, or any weapon for that matter... but then it finally clicks. In the haste of him getting away from the guards, he must’ve grabbed the two lead-tipped arrows._

_Why did he?_

You're not going where I think you're going. Please don't be going there-

_Flynn does not know, Flynn may never know, and truthfully, that’s fine with Flynn._

You're really funny, you know that?

_What Flynn does know is that, with him now, he has these two arrows that are more-than capable tools of helping him make his climatic ascent to finally enter his new sanctuary. Which, of course, is when he’ll promptly take a nice and well-deserved temporary rest before continuing his trek back home to the city-state of Vardaros._

_Whoever writes out the tales and scripts of fate seems to be working in his favor. They seem to be rooting for him. Flynn isn’t one to question these things; instead, he’s just going to enjoy the ride and whatever the scripter brings him next._

_Flynn Rider does not fail, for reminder’s sake... nor will he ever._

Except he will. One day he _will_ fail and it will haunt him for the rest of his life as long as he continues to lie about the man he truly is.

* * *

The climb is surprisingly difficult.

His body still hurts from his little tumble from earlier, but it’s not enough to completely incapacitate him in his movements. Still, because Flynn underestimated the height of the tower, he now finds himself exerting more energy than he would’ve initially preferred.

With each step higher he takes, with each arrow he thrusts into the old stone, he thinks of just how much he yearns to have some peace and quiet. It’s been a long, long time since he’s been able to just rest by himself without a care in the world, without having to worry about anything or anyone disturbing him. He yearns for the time he’s finally able to fall back against a wall and get some well earned shut eye.

The thought of sleep motivates him. The thought of being able to finally put his body and mind to rest after all that’s happened today is enough of a drive to give him the extra rush of adrenaline that he needs to finally complete his ascent.

Flynn is almost there. He lifts up his right arm, unable to fight against the way it now trembles, as he finally grabs hold of the wooden ledge. With all the strength he has left, he throws his body upward, panting heavily as he does so, before finally falling through the open window. He closes it in the same motion as his feet lower to level ground.

He’s made it. He's safe.

Flynn leans up against a nearby wooden pillar that extends off the stone wall, taking an extra moment to catch his breath and compose himself. He then pushes himself up, all the meanwhile unstrapping his satchel.

_He takes a good look at the possession that holds his golden ticket to a new life. A small, genuine smile creeps upon his face._

“Alone at last,” he says breathlessly.

_Alone at last._

.

.

.

He _does not_ notice that he is not alone, actually. He _does not_ notice the small, petite figure creep up behind him.

But he _does_ feel a sharp pain in his head as that small figure swings her frying pan up and against the back of his skull. It’s the last thing he feels, actually, before his eyelids snap shut and his breath is forcefully evicted out from his throat - in the exact same motion, mind you, as when everything around him evaporates into a pit of frightening nothingness.

His heart _does not_ race, but it _does_ still beat.

His heart _does not_ run in circles, as you could say, but it _does_ still pump.

And it _does_ seem that Flynn Rider and Eugene Fitzherbert are more alike than not, after all, no matter what's been said before.

_Except you're wrong._

Except I'm not.

 _ They're two completely different people_ _. _

Except they aren't. They're the same person.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation of the previous installment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello once again! I've had a lot of time on my hands, time that I probably should be using for other things. Anyway, here's chapter 5. We dig into a bit of some backstory here without revealing too much, but knowing that this story is a re-telling of the original movie but with universe and timeline alterations, one can guess the proximity of the direction it's headed. This is bit of a longer chapter, as well, so your welcome! I hope you enjoy it, and please, if you do, feel free to leave some feedback, whether that's through giving my work a kudos or a comment. You can give kudos as a guest, I've noticed, and they're practically harmless and only go to show to me that there are some people who actually enjoy the tale I'm trying to tell.
> 
> Also, one of the habits I have is just making sure to apologize in advance for any spelling or grammatical mistakes that make their way through editing. This is my first story I'm publishing firstly on ao3, and I was graced with joy to learn that its edit system is far more seamless and easy going than that of that other site. And in these past few days, I've often gone back to check my chapters for any small and more recognizeable ones I make. Another thing I've observed is that italicized characters, which I use a lot of in this story, have a weird spacing effect when they're next to any kind of sentence ender that makes it seem as if there's an extra space. Sometimes there actually is, sometimes there actually isn't, but I know how unappealing this can be to readers, so I apologize in advance that if this is the case at times throughout the rest of this chapter and story as a whole.
> 
> Finally, and I'm super sorry because this has grown very long as it is, I want to give a warning that there's going to be some serious, and I mean *serious* internal conflict going on within Flynn/Eugene's mind from here on out, between text that is normal and text that is italicized and underlined. I've gone back and heavily edited the past two chapters, including this one, to try to make this more evident. I also know that the way the conflict is interpreted and described might be hard to understand as a reader, and while that's something I think is completely okay, I'm making it this way because it's not supposed to be easy. Flynn, as a character, is listening to these two voices go at it inside his head, but he chooses to ignore them until he just can't anymore. If this is a big turn off for you, then I understand completely, but I do offer a promise that this won't last throughout the entire length of the story. It's just more of a requirement now as we build up to the climax.
> 
> Okay, whew. Now I'm done. Best wishes, and happy new year :)

Flynn dreams about the past.

He dreams about the orphanage - the place that tore him apart brick by brick, piece by piece. The place that left him shattered and broken. The orphanage with the caretaker who never really gave a damn about him or the other kids because they... plain and simply, just didn’t want to. Flynn likes to think it’s because the caretaker wasn’t being paid enough by the state, that the caretaker _did_ care but there was just some exterior factor that prevented them from showing as such.

But no. He knows now that the reason the caretaker stepped aside and did nothing for most of his life is because they just. didn’t. care. It’s ironic, really. A caretaker who did not care. Does that make them a Did-not-care... taker? 

Normally he’d laugh at that joke. But he doesn’t. Not now. He just remains... Quiet. And lost.

Flynn dreams about the orphanage that he, with the curse of being the oldest, had to care and look out for on his own. An entire building, twenty kids that he was unfairly tasked to take under his wing - boys and girls of all ages, of all skin-types, of all body weight... all _his_ responsibility.

Flynn hates the orphanage - but not because of any of that; no, of course not. In truth, a part of him actually enjoyed the responsibility that he was bestowed with. A part of him liked helping his fellow orphans. He really _did_ like reading stories to them at night, teaching them everything he had learned during his short time on this planet called Earth.

So no, Flynn does not hate the orphanage because it forced him to grow up faster than he originally would have liked. He hates the orphanage because it is the very place where Eugene Fitzherbert perished, but more importantly, where the one boy, the one friend he ever considered to be family, died. The one boy he had such a special bond with that, had the situation presented itself, he would’ve done _anything_ for.

Even giving up his own life.

Flynn wishes he could’ve given up his life for that boy. Flynn wishes that it were that boy who was breathing today instead of him. That boy, Flynn's brother, does not deserve to be dead while he’s out and about ruining the lives of innocent people. That boy, that sweet, lovable cinnamon roll of a boy who couldn’t hurt a fly even if he wanted to.

Whoever pulls the strings of fate took the wrong boy from this Earth. Whoever pulls those strings made a grave error. It should be _that boy_ breathing now instead of Flynn. It should be _that boy’s_ heart that races, beats, pumps, and runs in circles instead of Flynn’s.

Life is unfair.

It is at this moment Flynn wakes up, but only for the splittest of seconds. Before he is incapacitated once again, he hears the quietest gasp of shock any one man could ever hear.

* * *

“It’ll be okay, Ernie.”

Eugene is sitting on a rotting old chair next to the bed where his brother lays sleeping quietly, slowly breathing. He fights back the crack in his voice, a sign that shows he’s nearing the age where his transition into becoming a man is about to begin. He stares unblinking at the boy he claims as his brother, as his family. A boy who is two years his youth. A boy by the name of Arnwaldo Schnitz, otherwise known as Ernie, as Eugene’s called him over the time they’ve known one another.

“Ernie,” Eugene whispers, wiping the wetness away from his eyes with both hands. “It’s going to be okay, Ernie. I promise you, everything’s going to be okay.”

A part of him is doubtful that this is the case. Ernie, for the past few weeks, has gradually been getting slower in all aspects of life; in breathing, in movement, even in his speech. Eugene didn’t know what to think about it at first. He hasn’t had a lot of experience in special kinds of illnesses, being that he’s only twelve, so for the first week after Ernie’s descent, he ignored it. He thought the one boy he considered to be his brother was merely playing a prank on him.

Eugene wishes that it was a prank.

Ernie didn’t help Eugene’s case, either, for he pleaded up to this point the previous week that he’d been feeling fine. Just a little down in the dumps, that’s all he had said, among other assuring lines of his. And Eugene decided to believe him, because brothers aren’t supposed to lie to each other. Brothers are supposed to tell each other _everything_.

Eugene wishes that Ernie hadn’t lied. 

Eugene wishes that Ernie had told him the truth before the day came where Ernie could no longer get himself out of bed in the morning, or in the afternoon, or even in the evening. 

Eugene wishes that it hadn’t come to this.

“I won’t fail you, Ernie,” Eugene chokes out. He grabs onto Ernie’s restful hand and promptly holds it. He feels his cheeks dampen, but he does not wipe away the coming tears. “You’re going to make it out of this, you hear me?” He pauses to take a short and shallow breath, which is as far as he’s been capable of going in the breathing department whenever he’s stepped into this room the past week. “I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure you and I are able to play that game you like again one day; hopscotch, is that what you call it? Yeah.” 

He lets out a laugh, though happiness is the furthest thing from what he’s feeling now. “And I promise you, whenever that time comes, I won’t go easy on ya,” he tells his brother. “I swear to you that as long as my name is Eugene ‘Gene’ Horace Fitzherbert, you’re going down, Arnwaldo ‘Ernie’ Pietro Schnitz.” 

The next laugh that comes out of his mouth is more choked.

Eugene hopes that Ernie, in whatever dreamscape land he’s been residing in for the past week, can hear him. He hopes that Ernie wants to play that game of hopscotch as much as he does. 

But deep down inside, what Eugene is actually hoping for is that this won’t be the last day he has with his brother. Eugene knows that as long as Ernie is still breathing, that as long as Ernie’s heart is still racing, beating, pumping and jumping and running in circles... that as long as Ernie’s heart remains _alive_ , there is still time and hope. 

Slim as it is, there is still time and hope left.

Time that is left for him to find the cure or answer to whatever disease Ernie’s fighting, and hope that...

Hope that the world isn’t cruel enough to take the only other family he’s ever known away from him.

“I won’t fail you, Ernie,” Eugene whispers again to him, to his brother. His family, blood be damned. He closes his eyes and squeezes Ernie’s hand, before bringing it close to his heart. “I won’t fail you.”

Something very wet suddenly flicks into his ear.

* * *

“Gyah!” Flynn’s eyes widen as an involuntary gasp is elicited from his throat. The creature that had just filled his ear with its tongue squeaks as it falls down to the floor, unbeknownst to him.

Flynn’s eyes blink as his surroundings finally sink in. He darts them from side to side, trying to register just where he is. “Huh?” He attempts to move both his arms and legs away from the chair he sits in, but he quickly finds that he cannot. He looks down and finally sees why. 

“Wait, wha-? Huh? What?” He grunts and begins to struggle against the... the...

“Is this...” His eyes follow the long golden hair-like locks.. “Is this hair?” It can’t be hair, though... right? Who has _this_ long of hair? And wasn’t this tower supposed to be vacated, uninhabited? 

Oh, heavens, what has he gotten himself into?

“Struggling... struggling is pointless,” a shaky, frightful voice claims from the rafters of the room he resides in. Flynn’s eyes have so far followed the strange hair-like piece of rope up to that point, where the trail thankfully ends.

“Huh?” Flynn gasps quietly. He can barely make out the figure, though right away he knows it’s a girl. The feminine voice and the outrageously long locks of blonde hair _kind of_ give it away. Nonetheless, his eyes follow the supposed girl as she jumps down in the shadows from her spot atop the rafters. 

“I know why you’re here,” the girl accuses. She sounds young, Flynn observes, but he still cannot see what she looks like. For all he knows, she might not be human. Seriously... like, c’mon, what kind of boy _or_ girl has hair long enough that can act as stinkin’ rope for heaven's sake. 

“I know why you’re here,” the girl repeats in a trembling voice, “and... and I’m not _afraid_ of you.”

She claims she isn’t, but her voice says otherwise.

“... What?” Flynn manages. He doesn’t have much else to say. His eyes are still wide as he struggles to let the situation sink in that he’s tied to a chair, bound in someone’s _hair_ -

“Don’t ‘what’ me, you,” the girl stammers, “you ruffian!”

Flynn doesn’t flinch at the tone of her voice, but he is at a loss for words. “Uh...” _‘Ruffian’’?_ What the heck does ‘ruffian’ even mean? He doesn’t know, but he has a feeling it’s something bad, based on the way her voice sharpened as she finished.

So, Flynn decides then and there that he is sure as hell not a ‘ruffian’... whatever it is.

The girl then begins to stir, based on what little Flynn can make out of her. He squints his eyes and leans his head forward in anticipation as she finally begins to move forward. She takes a few steps, and Flynn holds his breath, before she finally steps out and into the light.

Flynn sees the wearer of long hair, the one who he now knows is behind the faint bruise he feels forming near the back of his head. And she’s a girl, alright. She’s definitely a girl...

No, scratch that.

She’s a _woman_. 

And she. is. _hot_.

“Who are you?” he doesn’t hear her ask. His mind shoos the sound away immediately. It’s too preoccupied with other things.

This woman, even if she does appear a little cuckoo up there in the head, has the sharpest, biggest, and most vibrant green eyes he’s ever seen. Her long blonde hair cascades down the sides of her face and the entire back of her body like a luscious sun-bathed waterfall. Her lips are small, but not _too_ small, and her face is a perfect mix of lanky and roundness.

And don’t even get him _started_ on the way her body is shaped. That’s a whole ‘nother conversation to be had in itself.

“And how did you find me?” she finishes. His mind finally allows him to hear once again. Yippee.

“Uh... uh huh,” he stammers in response, wide-eyed and mouth agape. He doesn’t notice how she’s been stepping closer while raising her frying pan as if she’s preparing for another attack... _nordoeshereallycare-_

“I asked,” the woman says slowly, raising her pan even higher. “Who are _you..._ and _how_ did you find me?” She says the last word through clenched teeth.

Flynn stares at her for a few more seconds before clearing his throat. He’s been in this position many times before, if you take out the incredibly long hair, the tower and the frying pan, of course. What’s coming next is an artform he’s trained himself in throughout all the years he’s spent running from the law. An art that has come naturally to him, but only through his many, _many_ experiences and times of practice.

Once again, Flynn feels a smile tug at that thought.

The art, as he calls it... of the charm. This woman does not know what’s about to hit her, Flynn thinks silently. She’s about to be knocked straight off her feet... _andintohislap-_

He clears his throat. “I know not who you are,” he begins, “nor how I came to find you,” he then serenades, “but may I just say...” He closes his eyes, and now is when the show is about to _truly_ begin.

Flynn opens his eyes and looks up to her. “Hi,” he says, grinning toothily. He raises both of his uneven eyebrows. 

Simultaneously, the woman’s own brows furrow and her lips purse together.

“How you doing? The name’s Flynn Rider.”

The woman’s eyes widen ever so slightly.

“How’s your day going?”

The woman’s eyes dart from one side to the other, as if she’s confused.

“Nice weather, isn’t it?”

The woman grunts, finally giving her confused feelings a voice. She raises the pan up menacingly. “ _Who else_ knows my location, _Flynn Rider_?” she asks slowly, leaning in close, her pan currently inches away from his head.

_ Now is when Flynn is starting to feel a little irritated. Who is this woman and why does she feel that she has the right to threaten him like this? He’s Flynn freakin’ Rider for crying out loud! _

Except... he... isn't.

_Except... he... is._

“Alright, Blondie-”

“Rah-punzel.”

Flynn stares at her. “Gesundheit.”

So far, his charm doesn’t seem to be working. That much is evident.

_But that’s okay, because sometimes the charm just needs a little bit of time to work itself way through the system. Everything will turn out nice and dandy, Flynn assures himself, because it always does. Flynn Rider does not fail, certainly not when the game’s against a woman he just met who is, also, probably clinically insane._

There will come a day when you're wrong.

He takes a deep breath.

“Here’s the deal,” he now tells the pretty, yet beginning-to-come-off-as-annoying, woman. “I was in a situation, a _dire_ situation might I add, gallivanting through the forest. I came across your tower, and - oh.” His eyes widen, his breath catches, and his heart skips a beat... but not in a good way. “Oh, oh no.” He darts his head back and forth, beginning to struggle once again against the bonds that hold him down. “My satchel. _Where_ is my satchel!?”

The woman, whose name he has already forgotten, straightens her back and crosses her arms. “I’ve hidden it,” she claims proudly, triumphantly. “Somewhere where you’ll never find it.”

Flynn doesn’t like the sound of that... until it takes him three seconds to find where she’s placed it.

“It’s in that pot, isn’t it?” He points to a nicely painted pot just off to his left. The woman follows his eyes and cocks an eyebrow.

She then swings her pan.

For the third time today, Flynn is knocked over the head with a frying pan. For the third time today, Flynn falls unconscious.

It’s barely past noon.

* * *

Flynn isn’t unconscious long enough to have any dreams this time.

He groans as something wet and slimy surfaces itself into his left eardrum for the _second time_ today. His head aches, though thankfully it doesn’t appear to be anything too serious. He’s always been resilient against any grave injuries. _There’s just something peculiar about the pure Flynn Rider blood that flows through his veins._

_ Flynn isn’t afraid of injuries. Injuries are afraid of Flynn. _

Even I know that's a bunch of baloney.

Flynn’s eyes slowly drift open, only to immediately dart to the left where he finally spots the two-time offender. “Huh?” 

It’s a frog... because of course it is. And it currently has its _tongue_ plunged into his _ear-_

“Ah!” Flynn lets out a faint scream. His body jolts sharply. Thankfully it’s enough to send the unnerving frog flying backwards. He wipes the abused ear to the best of his ability, given the lack of use he has for his arms. “Would you _please_ stop that?!”

He can’t see it, but he does hear the frog as it snickers from down below. Great. First there's a horse, then there's a crazy blonde-haired woman, and now there's a frog. Splendid. Extraordinary. Wonderful. When can Flynn check himself into Crazyville? Because he thinks he’s starting to lose it.

_ Hah. Good one. _

... Thanks.

“ _Now_ it’s hidden, where you’ll never find it,” the woman proclaims, her arms crossed and face smug. Flynn doesn’t hear her because he’s too focused on trying to remember what her name is. It’s Georgina, right? Or was it _Flamengo_ -

“So.” The woman swooshes her hair back and begins to walk towards him. She moves slowly and plods in a circle around his chair, and now is when Flynn _finally_ remembers her name. It’s... _Rapunzel_ , like the flower, if he recalls correctly. That’s a flower, right? Anyway, he inwardly cringes. What kind of name is that? _Rapunzel_? What sane person would name their child off a flower?

His head hurts.

‘Blondie’, Flynn decides, mostly because he’s trying to slow down his thought process in hopes of the pain going away, is what he’ll call her from now on. Her real name, _Rapunzel_ , sounds too much like the way he sneezes, and Flynn does not like that one bit.

“What do you _want_ with my hair?” Blondie asks, while not forgetting to threaten him for the thousandth time today with that surprisingly lethal frying pan of hers.

Yeah. He’s going to call her Blondie. If she wants to act like this towards him, like a spoiled, entitled little brat, then she doesn’t deserve the right or honor of being called by her actual name. Maybe when she decides to finally act her age and untie him from the monstrosity that is her hair will he acknowledge her as an actual adult woman.

“To cut it?” 

Flynn falls back into reality. “Uh, pardon?” What was she saying, again? 

“You want to sell it, that’s it. I can see it in the look of your eyes.”

 _Sell it?_ “What? Sell what?” _Look of his eyes?_ What the hell is she talking about? What does he want to sell? The crown? And what’s wrong with his _eyes_ -

“My hair,” Blondie explains, still circling him for whatever damn reason Flynn can’t think of. Does she think she’s intimidating him or something? “You want to cut or sell it, don’t you?”

She moves the pan closer. He flinches. Maybe she’s intimidating him a _tiny bit_.

“Wha-” Flynn’s voice catches, and once again his mind is brought back down to reality. Hair? Did she say hair? _Her_ hair? “No. What? Why would you-” He hesitates. Why on Earth would he want to... _ugh_ . “The only thing I want to do with your _hair_ , Blondie-”

“Rapunzel.”

“-is to _get out of it_! Li-te-ra-lly.”

The woman stops moving just as she stands to his right. “You... Wait. You’re saying that you... _don’t_ want my hair?”

She’s insane. This. woman. is. insane. Flynn thinks about crying for help but swiftly opts against doing such, because he’s not sure even _he_ can survive another one of those pan hits to the head. “Why on _Earth_ would I want your hair?” he asks, flabbergasted. “Look. I was being chased. I saw a tower, and I climbed it. End of story.”

Blondie looks surprised. “You’re... telling the truth?” She raises the pan again, though it doesn’t appear to be to intimidate him this time.

“Yes!” Flynn assures her, honest. He is! What use would a guy like him in the spot he’s in have for this long length of _hair_!? Scratch the length for just a second, why would he even need hair in general!? He has enough of the stuff already!

“Hmm.” The woman eyes him peculiarly. Just then, her mischievous pet frog (Flynn is assuming it's her pet, he hopes to the _heavens_ that it’s just a pet) makes itself known on-top of her left shoulder. It eyes him down menacingly, threateningly, as it scurries down Blondie’s arm. It reaches the end of the kitchen utensil and leans forward, a mere inches away from his face, leering at him.

Flynn is... at a loss of words. He’s also pretty surprised at how intimidated he is by a small little frog. He watches as it eyes him up and down, growling silently, before pointing back to Blondie with the tip end of its tail. Blondie then pulls the pan back, and the frog narrows its eyes, as if it doesn’t trust him. As if it’s telling him that it has its eyes on him.

Someone, anyone, please! Send help for this poor man!

Flynn is forced to watch helplessly as Blondie scurries back a few feet and turns away from him, hunching forward. He can barely make out what she’s saying... to... to her-

“I know I need someone to take me.”

... frog.

“I think he’s telling the truth, too.”

Flynn leans to the side, his eyes wide. He thinks he’s hallucinating. He thinks those pan shots to the head have finally made him lose his marbles, because it sounds as if Blondie is speaking to that damn _frog_.

“He doesn’t have fangs, yes, but what choice do I have?”

Oh, heavens, Flynn can’t take any more of this. He begins to push himself upwards and to the side with all his might. Maybe, just maybe, he’ll be able to provide enough force to fling himself out the window while Blondie’s distracted with... speaking to... to her pet _frog_...

He’s about to let out an exasperated scream for help just as she sighs and turns back to him, back straight and standing tall. “Okay, _Flynn Rider_.” He pauses mid-jump, his mouth wide, at the ready. “I’m prepared to offer you a deal.”

 _Deal?_ “Deal?” Flynn gasps, affronted at her authority. “ _You_ want to offer _me_ a _deal_?”

“Hush. Look this way.” Blondie begins to walk to the side, pulling her hair with her all the meanwhile, and either intentionally or unintentionally causing him to fall forwards as his chair is twisted and forced to change directions. 

Flynn lets out an exclaimed gasp as he hits the ground face first.

“Do you know _what_ these are?” Blondie asks him, somewhat boldly. 

Flynn’s completely down for the count, face first against the floor, still tightly tied to the chair. His voice is muffled, but he’s able to see that Blondie’s now moved to stand atop the fireplace, where she pulls back a curtain, revealing a surprisingly well painted picture of those ~~stupid~~ lanterns Corona lights every year on the Princesses’ birthday.

I was prepared for that one.

_ You won't be the next time. _

“You mean the lantern thing they do for the Princess?”

“ _Lanterns_ ,” Blondie whispers to herself. “I knew they weren’t stars.” She shakes her head before Flynn’s able to conjure up another thought about how crazy she is, speaking loudly and boldly once more. “Well, tomorrow evening, they will light the night _sky_ with these lanterns.” She directs the pan to him. “And _you..._ you will act as my guide,-”

Ha. No he won’t.

“-take me to these lanterns,-”

Nice try, but nah.

“-and return me home safely.”

Yeeeeeahhhh that’s a no. Good joke, though.

“Then, and _only_ then," she says with confidence, "will I return your satchel to you.”

Oh... he forgot about that part.

“That is my deal.”

_Darn._

“Yeeeaaah.” Flynn grunts and finally conjures up enough strength to push himself off the ground and to his side. The friction already feels a hundred times better. “No can do, Goldilocks-”

“Rapunz-”

“Unfortunately, the Kingdom and I that we speak of aren’t exactly ‘ _simpatico’_ at the moment, so... I won’t be taking you anywhere. Sorry.”

Blondie looks to her frog, who sits still perched on her left shoulder. It promptly gives her a look of aggressive intent as it pounds a fist into an open-palmed paw.

Flynn’s eyes widen. “Wait, hold on-”

“Something brought you here, _Flynn Rider_ ,” Blondie explains, jumping down from her perch. She drops the pan and pulls on her hair, providing enough strength that even surprises _Flynn_ as he’s suddenly sitting straight up once more. “Call it what you will; fate, destiny...”

“A horse,” he deadpans.

She walks towards him. “So, I have made the _decision-_ ”

“A horrible decision, really."

"... to trust you." Her voice raises. “But trust _me_ when I tell you this.” She yanks on her hair and, for a second, Flynn thinks he’s about to hit the ground again. But to his relief, yet simultaneous fright, she catches his chair with the palm of her right hand. 

He’s forced to look up to her as she speaks slower, quiet, and overall more impactful. “You can tear this tower apart _brick_ by _brick_ , but without _my_ help,” Flynn takes a second to gulp, “you will _never_ find... your precious satchel.”

Okay. He’s had enough of her games. 

Flynn clears his throat. “Let me just get this straight. I take you to see the lanterns, bring you back home, and you’ll give me back my satchel?” It sounds like an awful plan, but Flynn knows that, at this moment, he doesn’t have much of a choice nor does he have any leverage. He quietly thanks the tides of fate that Baron’s given all this extra time to get back to Vardaros, because who knows how different things would be if he was expected to be back sometime soon after the lantern festival.

_ Except it wouldn't have mattered either way. Because Flynn Rider never fails. _

He shivers at the thought.

“I _promise_ ,” Blondie says.

Flynn deadpans.

“And when I _promise_ something, I never, _ever_ , break that promise.”

His face doesn’t move an inch, except for the lone eyebrow that raises. Nonetheless, these games have gone on long enough. Flynn still has one more trick laced up his sleeve that, if performed correctly, might just be enough to get himself out of this.

“ _Ever_ ,” Blondie says with more assurance. The frog nods its little head at him, as if it's silently telling him to just accept her word for as it is. Flynn deadpans at the creature as well before moving to intercept Blondie’s crazy eyes.

Now or never. “Alright, listen. I didn’t want to have to do this, but you leave me no choice.” The last stand, the last hope, the last line of his defense and last play he has in his book of charm. “Here comes the smoulder.”

Flynn closes his eyes and slowly drops his head. He takes a breath.

And then he smoulders. He smoulders unlike he’s ever smouldered before. Every last pint of energy and life he has left that’s yet been drained by this psychotic frog lady is put into this one face, his signature move, the one very concept of seduction that’s made dozens of women fall straight off their feet and into his lap.

His head tilts slightly, lips pucker softly, eyes narrow fiercely, yet also gently, and eyebrows knit together like they’re two lovers who have been bound by the tides of fate to be apart, but yearn with all their hearts to just touch each other once more. His smoulder is like a tidal wave that’s primed to envelope and eat her up like the petite, gorgeous emerald-eyed woman she is.

Flynn can see it in the look of her eyes. She’s struggling. A large, a _very_ large part of her wants to fall right into his lap and tell him how she was wrong and is so, so terribly sorry for hiding his precious satchel from him. Her ears yearn to hear his cool voice as it brushes against the nape of her neck, whispering that he forgives her, that he understands why she did it, that everything will be okay as she moves under the direction of his spell, untying him from the confines of her hair. 

Yeah. She’s going to break. Any second now... _any_ second.

.

.

.

She doesn't break.

“This is kind of an off day for me,” he admits glumly, still holding the face. “Believe me, this doesn’t normally happen.” 

Flynn then promptly drops the act, as it’s made more than evident that there is, in fact, no way for him to get out of this. He doesn’t call this situation a failure, though.

_ Because it isn't. Because Flynn Rider never fails. _

A failure would be getting caught by the guards; a failure would be not making it back to Vardaros in the time period he’s been allotted. This, he allows himself to acknowledge, is simply a _roadblock_. The decision maker when it comes to his fate, someone he now opts to call the _FateMaker_ , is merely testing his patience, seeing if he’s worth all that’s soon to come his way. He knows already that he is but he understands why the FateMaker wants to test him, even if it annoys him greatly that it takes him being stuck with _Blondie_ for the next two days, at the very least, to convince them.

“Fine!” Flynn finally concedes, accepting this small roadblock. “Fine. I’ll take you to see the lanterns.”

Blondie gasps. “Really!?” she squeaks.

Gravity, all of a sudden, takes hold of him. "Wait, _Blondie_ -"

It doesn’t take a genius to guess what happens next.

“... Oops.”

.

.

“You broke my smoulder.”


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation of the previous installment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, wow. Lots to cover.
> 
> For continuing readers who are only now returning to the story, I advise you go back and re-read or just skim over chapters 3-5. It's not necessary, but I made note in chapter 5 recently mentioning that I've gone back and edited some slim bits and pieces. This work is in no way shape or form professional, and I am purely posting this for my and others own enjoyment, so things like this might happen from time to time until this has come to a definite conclusion.
> 
> The changes I've made have been highlighting more on the internal conflict going on within Flynn/Eugene's head. There's actually a small part of this chapter that focuses solely on this, and that goes to help try to explain the scenario of it all. As I mentioned in my chapter 5 notes, I understand that as a reader, this kind of style might be a turn off. That's fine, but for my story, I feel it's necessary because I'm attempting to put a different spin on the original movie we all know and have come to love. I'm trying to create a somewhat realistic struggle within Flynn as he goes on this adventure with Rapunzel, slowly reminding himself of the man he actually is. Not Flynn Rider, but Eugene Fitzherbert.
> 
> As I've also said, I will never try to blackmail my readers with threatening to not update if I don't receive feedback. But this type of style of writing is so complex - and hard to write at times - that I would like it if I can receive some feedback, if you want to, of course, about whether or not you like it, or can even understand it to some capacity.
> 
> As always, thank you all for reading, and my apologies for any spelling/grammar mistakes that fall through the final cut. I hope you enjoy!

It’s not long after that Blondie finally unties Flynn from the chair, allowing him to stand.

“Alright. Whew, okay,” he mumbles. “I’m glad that’s settled.” Who knew hair could be such a great alternative to rope?

He dusts himself off. Immediately after setting him free, which she was able to do surprisingly easily, Blondie took to darting her way across the room near the small staircase. She’s currently kneeled over, back to him, he can see, speaking to her pet frog in quiet whispers he can’t and _does not_ want to make out.

The direness of his situation finally falls on him. He’s taking a woman… a woman he just met who, 1. Knocked him unconscious three times, 2. Tied him to a chair with her freakishly long hair, 3. Was able to somehow get the best of him to a point where he held absolutely no power or leverage whatsoever, which forced _him_ to abide by the terms _she_ made, and 4. Is probably insane to some degree.

The FateMaker seems to really have it out for him, now. How the tides have turned.

_Flynn doesn’t mind, though. He’s always up for a challenge._

Little does he know that this is going to be his biggest challenge yet.

After being content with his attire and the way his hair delicately falls into place, he walks to the window. Blondie is still hunched up in the corner speaking to her pet frog about heaven knows what. The idea that this woman speaks to a frog, who is surprisingly intimidating to him for whatever reason, is scary yet… sad, in a way. He’s sure he’ll be able to ask her questions later about why she speaks to a frog of all creatures, because the lantern festival isn’t scheduled until tomorrow evening. 

He inwardly groans at that fact. This is great. He’s going to be spending two days with a frog lady who has enough hair to cover every single bald person on this gosh darn planet. This is going just _swell!_

Flynn ultimately decides to be a gentleman about the situation, though, because a small part of him still thinks he can somehow trick her into giving him his satchel back _before_ he’s forced into a road trip to the kingdom that currently wants his head on a stick.

He makes it to the window, opening it to reveal a cloudless, bright baby blue sky. He takes a second to breathe in the fresh, warm air that he very much deserves after this little theatre act ~~and mental arguments~~ he’s been put through.

“Okay, so I don’t exactly know how we’re going to do this,” he manages to finally admit. He turns and looks at her.

Blondie, from her spot in the corner near the wooden staircase, slowly tilts her head towards him. 

“I had a hard enough time climbing up here by myself, but I guess carrying you on my back won’t be as hard considering the direction we’re going is _down_ this time.”

She looks confused. “You don’t have to carry me,” she says in a quiet voice. In this spot, crouching down in the corner, Flynn finally takes in just how small she is compared to him.

“I know I don’t _have to,_ but I think it’d be in your best interests if I did.” _Why does he all of a sudden care about her best interests?_ “Unless you’ve actually - you know what, who am I kidding.” He shakes his head. “You’ve climbed this tower probably hundreds of times, right? I mean, how else would you get down and back up?” She doesn’t look like the type who climbs towers for a living, but like he said, how else would she get up here? It’s not like there’s a front door downstairs and a secret trapdoor that’s hidden in the stone floorboards somewhere. _He’d know it if there was, because he's Flynn Rider._

Her eyes fall downcast, same as the frog’s. She doesn’t respond to his questioning claim.

His face softens. 

She’s not saying what he thinks she’s saying, right?

_He’s barely known this woman for fifteen minutes, why does he all of a sudden care about her life story? Why does a small part of him suddenly feel a slimmer of sorrow_ ~~as the dark, potential reality of the situation she might be in slowly dawns on him.~~ _Has he forgotten already that she’s most likely a psychopath and is li-te-ra-lly blackmailing him right now!?_

Yes, he has. He doesn’t care if she’s crazy, actually, because he cares for _all_ people who are less fortunate than him, whether he wants to or not.

“Forget it,” he ~~sadly~~ concludes. Flynn dares to ask why she thinks she can climb down this tower all on her lonesome.

“I’m not going to _climb_ down the tower,” she says, her words gaining a stronger voice. She stands up and, for the very first time, Flynn looks at her as any two adults would. Face to face, backs straight, on level ground. “Actually, I am. But I have _other_ methods at my disposal.” She giggles, walking towards him.

For the splittest of seconds, Flynn’s heart flutters. He finds out very quickly that he likes the way she giggles-

_No. No he doesn’t._

It seems that he does.

But then she turns away, instead focusing on the windowsill he stands right in front of. Flynn’s heart falls, but he decides not to acknowledge it; instead, he watches as she points to the two arrows he left there as he made his entrance a small time ago. “What are those?”

His eyebrows furrow. “ _Those_ are arrows…” Is she saying she doesn’t know what an arrow is? He knows not many common folk have even seen an actual arrow, but that doesn’t mean they don’t _know_ what it is or what general shape they are.

She lifts a delicate finger, moving her hand closer to the two lonely pieces of wood. “Ar-rows,” she repeats, as if this is the first she’s heard of them. As if it’s the first time she’s even saying the _word._

Flynn watches as she slowly moves her finger closer to the… tip… 

“Hey, Blondie, I wouldn’t touch that-”

His words arrive too late.

“Ow! Ow, ow ow!” Blondie jumps back. She glares at him, holding her finger close to her chest. “Your arrow bit me!”

He stares at her, face unmoving, before he breaks out in a laugh. 

“Sorry, sorry,” he coughs after a few seconds, ignoring the way she and her frog suddenly start glaring at him. He hunches over, holding both hands on his knees. “Did you just say my arrow _bit_ you?”

“Uhh, yes?” she continues to claim, now more confused than mad at his outburst.

“Okay, uh, wow,” Flynn mumbles, wiping a tear away. He coughs one final time before standing up straight. “You’re serious.” His voice is still slightly shaky. “I’m sorry, it’s just…”

“You’ve never been bit by an arrow before, have you?” she asks suddenly. “It’s okay, I haven’t either… well, not before _now_ of course. This is my first time seeing an arrow, actually.”

That much is evident. Flynn blinks. He holds back another uncomfortable laugh, biting his lip. “Uh… sure,” he manages instead. He might as well go along with her game of lunacy. Not like he has anything better to do. “No, I haven’t been _bit_ by an arrow before.” He pauses, and without thinking, continues, “But I have come close, though.”

Oddly enough, her eyes - and the frog’s, for that matter - light up at that notion. “Really? When?”

“About twenty or thirty minutes ago, actually. The guards who shot at me-” he doesn’t notice the way her eyes widen, “-thankfully missed, and I was able to pick the two of these up in the escape.”

“Guards? Is that how you came across my tower?” she asks. “You were running from… from _guards_?” There is a slight tint of fear laced in her voice that Flynn overlooks initially.

He quirks an eyebrow at her, suddenly growing suspicious as he remembers the position he’s in, wanted criminal and all. He doesn’t think Blondie would even dare try to turn him in, though, mostly because he’s her ticket to seeing these lanterns that she for-whatever-reason cares about so much about. But then again, the reward money the Kingdom - that bastard King - is probably offering in exchange for his capture is most certainly monumental, but Blondie hasn’t taken him as someone who cares that much about money.

Besides, her voice doesn’t sound at all suspicious, he observes keenly. It just sounds… curious. And slightly frightful. Hey, who knows, maybe Blondie’s trying to stay away from the guards as much as he is. That’d be a surprising development.

“Uh… yeah. That wouldn’t be a problem for you, though…” He pauses. “Would it?” 

_ A sinister idea grows in his head. Maybe, just maybe he can convince her that the guards might very well notice him and bring them both in for treason. Yeah, that’ll work. And then he’ll convince her to give him back his satchel.  _

I’d have an objection to this except it goes to show that he cares for her safety.

_No-_

“No!” she yelps, her cheeks immediately going pink. “No, I mean…” she says quieter, “that won’t be a problem, no.”

“Uh-huh. Are you sure?” he asks. “Because the tales they tell about those Coronan guards are… well, they aren’t the nicest. Nor are they the _cleanest,_ might I add.”

He thinks otherwise but his words are fueled by the image of her being in handcuffs, all because of him.

_No they aren’t. He’s simply getting rid of a pest._

“I know,” she says matter-of-factly. “Mother tells me stories about the big bad guards all the time, and how they want to steal my hair so their evil king can use it for no good.”

Flynn blinks.

“Uh… okay.” There’s a lot to register with what she just said. He chooses to address the _mother_ situation first before diving into how the King of Corona could _use_ someone’s hair, _her_ hair to be specific. “You never told me you had a mother.” He almost doesn’t notice the way the color drains from her face, and the frog’s, for that matter. He takes a mental note of this. “Is she around?”

“Uhh…” Blondie looks to her frog, who chirps something quietly to her that Flynn can’t quite make out. Maybe it’s because he just doesn’t speak frog language, or something. “She is... but not right now. She’s currently on a… uh, trip.” The frog nods its head at him. “Yeah, she’s on a trip getting me new paint for my birthday tomorrow."

So there _is_ a parental figure in her life, Flynn notes. He presumes there’s no father because she’s refrained so far from mentioning one.

“She said she’ll be back in three days,” Blondie adds, and she seems happy about that. Whether it's the fact the mother's promising to come back or that she has some time alone, he does not know. Not yet. Flynn takes another mental note, though.

The mention of her birthday being _tomorrow_ flies straight over his head.

“Your mother seems to really care about you,” he comments intentionally. He watches and waits for her reaction. 

_Maybe he could use this against her?_

Even if he could, that doesn’t mean he should.

“She… she does,” Blondie admits, though there isn’t much enthusiasm or self-assurance in her voice. It doesn’t help that she’s no longer smiling, either. If Flynn had to take a wild guess based solely on the tone of her words and the expression on her face, it’s that the mother is either _not_ present, or _is_ present, but just treats her like crap.

Involuntary, his eyebrows furrow and lips pout in despair at the potential of either possibility being Blondie’s reality.

_What?_

Look, as much as he’s called her insane, a psycho, psychotic, crazy, and a frog lady, he knows all too well what it’s like to grow up on his own without anyone there to look out for him.

_Eugene knows that feeling. Flynn Rider doesn’t._

His mind begins to wander into dusty old territory, because he knows that this _actually_ wasn’t the case for him. He didn’t have any parents to look up to, yes, that part’s true. But he did have _someone._ Someone who _did_ care, someone who _did_ give a damn about him, he remembers, as the face of a young boy with black skin suddenly pops up in his mind-

* * *

_No._

_Stop._

_You've been in control long enough. It’s time I take over the narrative._

By all means, go ahead. I can't promise I'll stay quiet, though.

_What is he doing? What is Flynn thinking? Hadn’t he pledged to never think about that… that boy ever again, ever since that day he ran away from the orphanage? He did, he recalls, though the memory is faint._

Faint for reasons he knows but chooses not to say. 

_You stay out of this._

You’re a hypocrite, you know? You claim they are two different people, so wouldn’t _Flynn_ have no recollection of the orphanage?

_How is this even possible? How are we even speaking right now?_

Remember that fall, from the really high cliff? When Flynn momentarily let his guard down, he forgot who he was (or thought he was) for the splittest of seconds. But these few seconds were enough to cause a chain reaction to explode throughout his head, so now the two very separate personalities he possesses within him - Flynn Rider and Eugene Fitzherbert - have been made into you and I. We were once the same, working in unison for one common goal - what we believed was best for him. We once accepted one another, actually. I once went along with you willingly, letting you corrupt him. But the balance has now been broken, our separation being the result. And there's no going back.

_ Alright. That makes sense, I guess. What part of Flynn do I speak for, then?  _

You speak for the part of Flynn that yearns to forget the past, the part that believes he is incapable of feeling emotions other than hate, anger, and frustration, among others. The part of him that believes he is greater in all aspects of life in comparison to others, the part that has closed himself off for the past ten years of his life because he's afraid of feeling pain. You are the persona that Flynn has lived by for the past ten years of his life. You are _Flynn Rider._

_ Oh, I like that. What about yourself?  _

I represent the part of Flynn that yearns to finally put this act to a rest, the part that wants to re-emerge as Eugene Fitzherbert and make amends for all the hurt and pain he's caused in this world. I speak for the part of Flynn who just wants to ball up in a corner and cry because he has not allowed himself to properly grieve the death of his brother for ten years now. I speak for the part of Flynn who knows he is capable of love, of affection, of reciprocating feelings others give him, but simply just hasn't yet because no one he's met in his life, since proclaiming himself to be Flynn Rider, has seen him for the man he truly is instead of the man he pretends to be. I am _his conscience._

_ I'm beginning to understand, but I have some questions. If that's fine with you, my counterpart.  _

It seems we're on speaking terms, and have taken full control of his story, at-least temporarily, because of your actions, so go ahead.

_ According to you, I represent all the bad in Flynn while you represent all the good. But I've seen you - him - draw up negative or sinister thoughts without my input. Why is that? _

Because he has been through so much trauma, he has conjured you up as a coping mechanism. A coping mechanism that has evolved into becoming his natural way of life. I go along with some aspects of his lines of thought because I feel I have to. Because it is my responsibility and that I am not in a position of power. Because I serve his current interests, unlike you. Even if they aren't the best.

_ That doesn't really answer my question, but anyway. One more. If you believe he is truly Eugene Fitzherbert, even though he clearly isn't, then why do you call him Flynn just as I? _

I call him Flynn because that's who he is right now. I told you, my counterpart, he possesses two separate personalities, and the one that is dominant right now is the one that is named Flynn. His chosen name and identity right now is Flynn, Flynn Rider. He is currently choosing to think this way, and there is nothing I can do about it except help guide him whenever I can.

Until he is able to understand that this personality - which you represent - he has conjured up for himself is slowly eating him away like a disease, until his mind simply can't take it anymore, I will call him Flynn. Because that's who he is, and I represent who he is currently, and all that he thinks, even if I disagree with it. Even if I think who he is is merely but an act. You were once this way, my counterpart. 

The positive thoughts you see conjuring up in his head aren't me, I think you should know. Well, they are, because I am a part of him, but it's ultimately _he_ who is deciding to think them. I am simply the messenger, if that makes any sense. I am not the author of his thoughts. I am the conveyor of them.

Even after all these years of pushing them away, these thoughts come naturally to him because it's just in the nature and code of his character. I am simply a messenger just as you are, except I care for his well-being. You don't. At one point, you did; at the lowest point in Flynn's life, he created you - the persona of Flynn Rider - because he had been so tormented and mentally broken to that point by everything and everyone around him. You were his only hope, at one point. But now all you care about is keeping power, about holding this power over him. It's not Flynn who cares about power, it's you, and he's slowly been tricked into believing that this is what he wants.

_ You had me up until disease. Flynn Rider is not sick. This is just who he is.  _

It's who he's trying to be.

_ I've had enough of your nonsense. Back to my narrative.  _

_Flynn thinks about all that’s happened to him so far; his slip-ups, his hesitations... and a feeling of irritation, of anger, of frustration begins to grow in the base of his throat. Now is not the day, he chants inside his head, that he allows some… some woman, whom he just met (and is being blackmailed by!), reach into the spot in his chest_ ~~where the charred pieces of his heart are, work to put him back together~~ _**where his heart lays, work to change him** ** _._** Now is not the day where all the work he’s put into forgetting the past and changing the basic ideals of his character so he can move on with his life is put to waste._

You choose to ignore me because I speak the truth.

_Now is not the day._

Perhaps, but that does not mean the day won’t come.

“Flynn?”

_That day will never come._

It will. One day. And perhaps that woman, who is now calling his name, his fake name, might be a part of the reason why.

_He’s already felt things he’s promised himself he’d never feel again, and he’s only known this woman for… twenty, thirty minutes now?_

Maybe she’s just different than everyone he’s ever met up to this point in his life.

_Shut._ **_Up!_ **

Maybe it’s because she might see him as Eugene instead of the pretender, Flynn.

_I said…_ **_SHUT. UP._ **

_**Flynn** needs to get a grip. **Flynn** needs to get his priorities straight. **Flynn** needs to take this woman to see the lanterns tomorrow night, return her home the day after, get his satchel back, head back to his home in Vardaros and marry Stalyan. _

Even though there is no part of him that even wants to. Because he doesn't love her.

_**Flynn** will marry her because the only thing that matters to him is power. And **Flynn** is able to achieve this power he yearns for if he marries the current Baron’s daughter. _

You have him so, so, _very_ wrong.

“Flynn?... Hello?”

_Power is the only thing **Flynn** wants. _

No, power is the _farthest_ thing from what he wants.

“Earth to Flynn?”

**_POWER WILL BE THE ONLY THING FLYNN EVER WANTS!_ **

* * *

.

.

.

No. The only thing he ever wants in life is to be loved not for being _Flynn Rider_ , but for being _Eugene Fitzherbert._

_._

_._

_._

* * *

Flynn shakes his head, blinking a few times. “Huh?” He notices now that the girl is currently waving her hand in front of his face. “What are you doing?”

She stops. “... You seemed to have dozed off,” she explains tentatively, “so I was trying to get your attention.” Her hand drops and her frown is suddenly smaller than it had been. Her head tilts. “Is everything alright?”

He blinks. A small part of him wants to say that no, everything is _not_ alright, but that small part of him remains locked in a cage of the vast denseness that is the prison of his mind.

Or so he thinks.

“I’m fine,” he says curtly, frowning.

He turns to the windowsill and grabs his arrows.

“... Are you sure?” Blondie asks him, in a way that tells she’s trying to be careful with what she says. In a way that implies that she does, yet doesn’t, understand to some extent that a switch has been pulled in his mind, and that trying to prod any further will only result in failure and a potential outburst on his behalf. 

She seems to ignore this feeling. “You didn’t _look_ fine just then-”

“I said I’m fine,” Flynn snaps at her. He glares her way, clenching the arrows in both of his fists that dangle on each of his sides. He ignores the way the frog glares and growls at him at him in return as he now towers over Blondie, reminding her that despite all the leverage she holds, that despite him taking her on this field trip to the kingdom for the lantern festival, they are not friends and never will be.

Despite all this, that same small part of him hurts at seeing the pure fright on her face that’s there because of him. That same small part of him wishes that one day it’s possible he and her might even be able to be friends after everything is done and over with.

_That small part of him is gone, though._

Except it isn’t. Except it’s actually closer than you think.

After he’s concluded that she’s received the hint, Flynn turns back to the windowsill. He and her both don’t say another word as he lifts himself up and slides his way over the edge, until his feet dangle aimlessly in the open air.

“Come on,” he says emotionlessly, not turning to look at her. “We don’t have all day.”

It is then he begins his descent, all the meanwhile pushing away thoughts and feelings that do nothing but confuse him.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation of the previous installment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back, readers! Here we have chapter 7 of this tale. Things are slowly beginning to move forward with the plot, as well as some certain feelings and some inner conflict coming to a head. This will probably be the last time I mention this change, or update in the story, for the seeable future (unless I make another drastic change or edit that I do not foresee coming at the moment), but sometime after my posting of Chapter 5, I went back and updated some small bits and pieces of this story starting after the big fall that happens in chapter 3. I've done this to put more focus on the inner conflict going on within our main character's head. Just for curiositie's sake, if you've been reading up to this point and still are confused, the underlined *and* italicized text (ONLY WHEN BOTH ARE USED TOGETHER) is when the evil side, the character of Flynn Rider that he's manifested inside his head, is speaking. There is a section in Chapter 6, I believe, where I actually incorporate a discussion going on between both sides of the conflict, his conscience *and* this Flynn Rider character, where I use their narrative and conversation as a means of trying to explain the thought process I've put into which determines how this all works.
> 
> Okay, that's enough from me. As always, my apologies for spelling/grammar mistakes that fall through the final cut. Being that editing comes so easy on this site, and that I sometimes go back to read some parts of this story to refresh my own memory, I might catch some things and update periodically. But, regardless, my sincerest apologies for any that fall through this initial cut. I hope you enjoy!

“You coming, Blondie?”

Flynn slowly makes his way down her tower, carefully ensuring each of his arrow placements is secure enough to hold his weight as he nears flat ground once more. He yearns to feel grass as it's squished under his boot. but he also remains alert and hesitant at the fact that for all he knows, that pesky horse could still be out there somewhere, as well as those guards, too, looking for him.

He decides to put away those fears, though, and focus on his current situation at hand, and how he’s going to manage to trick this woman (who still hasn’t begun to climb down with him yet) into giving him back his satchel before tomorrow evening. He still doesn’t exactly know  _ how _ she’s getting down, but after their little impasse just a few minutes earlier, he doesn’t find himself really all that caring for her wellbeing at the moment.

He grunts and pants, pausing every so often to catch his breath. He forgot how hard this was the first time.

All of a sudden, in the middle of moving an arrow, he hears and feels a gust of wind brush up against his back. He looks up and holds in a gasp as Blondie’s hair - yes, _Blondie's_ __hair_ \-  _ plummets right towards him in a free fall. He is barely able to dart his head away in time before Blondie - yes,  _ Blondie herself  _ - comes riding down it, as if her hair is some kind of rope-

Oh.

_ Now _ it all clicks.

He watches in awe - not because he has to, but because he  _ wants _ to - as she laughs and enjoys herself for the first time that he’s seen. Despite being mad at her (or how he’s  _ supposed _ to be mad at her), he can’t help the smile that begins to pull at his lips at the sight of her having so much fun, at the sight of the way she’s just… _living._

And, oddly enough, this time he doesn’t immediately push the feelings away she stirs inside him as if they're toxic or traitorous.

_ What? _

He just hangs there, smiling, not a care in his world as he watches her. He feels at peace, relaxed, as if the tremendous weight he placed upon his shoulders ten years ago has disintegrated into thin air. As if that weight had never even existed, as if that weight was just a fabrication he had come up with that was completely inside his head. All that matters to him, all he cares about in this moment is watching her as she nears the ground, and-

“Huh?” 

His smile drops.

She’s stopped. A few feet from the ground, she’s caught herself and appears to be hanging on for dear life, tangled up in her hair. If Flynn hadn’t known any better, he’d think she was… scared. Hesitant. Anxious; frightened, perhaps. But that doesn’t make any sense, though. Blondie has no reason to be frightened. She’s made it; her hair worked as a good enough rope for her to use as a means to slide down her tower, and all she needs to do now is take that first step onto solid ground. Then, she's golden.

Unless there’s a reason  _ why _ she’s hesitating.

Blondie, after some seconds, finally lets up. Carefully, she lowers her bare left foot towards the ground and into the grassy earth. Then she lowers her right, until her full weight is finally transferred from her hair to the heels of her bare feet.

All the meanwhile, Flynn hangs there watching as if she’s some caged animal at the petting zoo. Not because he has to, again, but because he  _ wants _ to… also because he’s curious.  Blondie is just a unique individual that inspires a lot of curiosities within Flynn’s mind, what can the guy say?

He hangs still, watching as she begins to laugh. His eyebrows furrow in bewilderment as many,  _ many  _ questions fill his head:  _ Why _ is she laughing?  _ Why _ is she now falling to her knees and feeling the grass as if she’s never felt grass before, and _why_ is she promptly  _ rolling around _ in it?  _ Why _ is she now standing up and following a dandelion that’s since been taken by the wind, and  _ why _ does she gasp as she accidentally stands in a nearby small pond of water?

“Blondie?” She doesn’t respond, nor look at him. It’s as if she doesn’t  _ want _ to hear him, or maybe it’s that she simply  _ can’t.  _ Maybe it's because she’s just stepped foot into a whole new world that's different than the one she’s lived in throughout her whole life up to this point.

Flynn clears his throat right before she leans down and splashes some water up and above her head, around one singular blue bird that has suddenly, magically appeared out of nowhere.

Literally. The thing just flew down from  _ nowhere. _ He should know, because she's had his eyes fixated for a good twenty seconds now.

He’s starting to get a little freaked out, though. Not because this bird appeared out of nowhere, but because Blondie looks as if she's on the verge of breaking into a sugar high.

“Uh…” He hesitates. “Rapunzel?” he calls. He uses her actual name in hopes she can take a hint that he’s not enjoying this little  _ game _ she’s playing. Which he isn't. He's _very much_ not enjoying what he thinks she's about to do.

She still doesn’t respond, much to his fright and confusion. Instead, she begins to run. It starts out as a little jog, but then she picks up speed until she’s flat out running, and the direction she’s heading is… is...

His heart drops. “Rapunzel!” he yells. Flynn’s all of a sudden panicking, and anxieties beginning to fuel his mind, he moves. He climbs down the tower as fast as he can, but not  _ too fast  _ as to not risk himself falling. It takes far longer than he’d originally anticipated, but he soon reaches a height that he’s comfortable enough with jumping from.

“Rapunzel!” he cries as his feet and knees hit solid ground.

“I can’t believe I did this!” he hears her screech from  _ beyond _ the valley. His heart is sent into a new overdrive as images of the guards or that horse locking them  _ both _ up into cuffs fill his head. 

“Oh no you don’t,” Flynn growls as he begins to fumble his way out towards the cave exit/entrance. “I’ve come this far, Blondie, and I will  _ not _ let you ruin this for me.”

* * *

He lets her ruin it for him.

Well,  _ ruin _ would be a strong word in this case. The better word, or phrase, for what she's done to him is that she’s made his life an absolute living hell.

For the past two hours, he’s let her go through whatever type of mental and emotional crisis that’s suddenly been bestowed upon her soul. He knew going into this from the some minutes they spent inside the tower together that she wasn’t all  _ there _ in terms of mental stability, but never in his life could he have expected  _ this _ kind of a showing from such a young, small, and naïve woman like her.

It’s gotten so bad that Flynn’s actually been hoping - no,  _ praying _ that the white horse or a guard of some kind would just show up and get his execution done and over with. He's fine with them getting it over with out here. Literally _anything_ would be better than this.

Firstly, never in his life has Flynn has ever seen  _ anyone _ with the amount of energy she has. Secondly, he has also never seen anyone go through a mental and emotional crisis the likes of the one he’s been sitting in for during these few painful, agonizingly lonesome hours.

She hasn’t spoken to him  _ once _ since their small falling out inside the tower, but she has been speaking to  _ herself. _ About a lot of things, actually, and in a whole lot of different places he now finds himself flinching around because of too many awful memories he has already of _jumpscaring_ him.

Flynn considers what Blondie’s been putting him through for the past two hours as torture. Perhaps different guard ranks should enlist her help in torturing criminals, he muses. If his case speaks for the rest of the group, then Blondie could single-handedly stop all the crime throughout  _ any _ kingdom, country, city, or state.

But back to the things she’s said. So far, based on what little he’s been able to make out, Flynn understands these few facts to be true about her current situation:

  1. The mother figure is in-fact present, but not as often as Blondie would like.
    1. Speaking of the mother figure, Blondie doesn’t appear to even _like_ her mother all that much, but is still obedient and respectful because of the connection. The mother figure also appears to be overprotective. He’s heard some faint mutterings about how the mother is… _older,_ in some capacity, and that she’s quick to grow weak, and sick. What that means or entails about Blondie’s situation, he does not know. Not yet.
  2. This is either the first time in a _long time_ or her first time _ever_ stepping foot outside that tower, which sounds bizarre to him if that’s actually true, but for the moment he just accepts it as it is. Her reaction to the world around her explains this to him, _and he takes a mental note to potentially exploit this later on._
  3. Finally, she’s dealing with a lot of inner conflict and guilt. Blondie has gone from being happy and excited that she’s out of that tower, to depressed and guilty that she’s somehow ‘breaking a promise’ by doing so. _Again, Flynn takes a mental note to potentially exploit this to his own benefit._



Whew. Yeah. That’s a lot to take in.

Flynn has a plan, though. He has a plan that, if he executes correctly, should theoretically be enough to get his satchel back without having to ever take a step  _ closer _ to this kingdom's capital again. A plan that would ensure not only _his_ safety, but _hers,_ as well.

_ He doesn’t care about her safety, though. _

Except he does.

And when he sees Blondie hunched up on the ground, head in her knees, sobbing to herself as she sits up against a rock, he knows it is time to put his plan into fruition.

He doesn’t plan for the sudden way his stomach lurches at the thought of guilt-tripping her. He ignores the feeling, though, just as he’s always done. Besides, he tells himself, it’s better for her and him both if they go their own separate ways.

Everything will be better that way, he continues to tell himself. Everything will be better for him and for her if they now go their separate ways.

But why does he feel like it won’t? Why does he feel like… like he’s making a mistake?

_ He isn’t making a mistake. _

Flynn walks up to her slowly, his steps heavy, until he’s standing directly above her. For a second, he thinks about walking away. He thinks that he’s invading her privacy, that he should just let her get over her feelings on her own instead of pushing her in some direction she may not want to go in.

_ But then he thinks about all the hell that she’s put him through so far. Three hits to the head, courtesy of her frying pan. Putting him off schedule by at-least two days in his trip back to Vardaros. Blackmailing him into taking her to see some stupid lantern show up close. _

_ And that’s when he comes to the conclusion that she does not **deserve** his pity, that she does not **deserve** to be treated with respect. _

He clears his throat before squatting down to be closer to her level. The frog, her pet he’s now concluded it to be, sits just nearby, staring at her, looking as if he’s on the verge of tears himself.

_ He doesn’t pity the frog, either. _

Flynn pays it no more attention. “You know,” he begins, “I can’t help but notice that you seem a... a little at  _ war _ with yourself, here.” 

She sniffles and tilts her head. “Wh-what?”

“Now, I’m only picking up bits and pieces,” he says quickly, standing back up. “Overprotective mother, forbidden road trip.” He scoffs. “I mean, this is some  _ serious _ stuff you’ve got going on here!”

He notices that he now has her full attention. He smiles inwardly.

_ All going according to the plan. _

“But let me help you  _ finally _ ease your conscience.” He darts his eyes away after he notices how teary hers are. He takes a split second to breathe, composing himself, ~~cursing at himself for doing this-~~

“You see, this is just part of the process I call growing up.” He looks back at her, but instead of her eyes, he focuses on her chin. He can’t pull himself to look at her in the eyes because if he does he knows he’ll hesitate and screw this up. “A little rebellion,” he pumps his fist to the side, “a little adventure, that’s good! I’d even call it healthy!”

The frog has somehow made its way up his right shoulder. He promptly shoves it off.

Blondie manages a choked chuckle. “You really think so?”

“Oh, I do. I really,  _ really _ do.”  _ He’s got her right where he wants her. _ “You’re  _ way _ overthinking this, trust me.” He lifts his leg and leans forward onto the rock she’s sitting against. “Does your mother deserve it? No.” She shakes her head in agreement. “Would this break her heart and crush her soul? Of  _ course _ it would!”

Her face falls.

He stands back up and crosses his arms. “But there’s nothing wrong with that, because you’ve just  _ got _ to do it.”

Blondie looks like she’s seen a ghost. “Br-break her heart?” she murmurs all but to herself.

Flynn grabs a nearby berry. “In half.”

“... Crush her soul?”

He squeezes his index and forefingers together. “Like a grape.”

“She… she would be heartbroken,” Blondie says in realization, just as Flynn helps her up to her feet. “You’re right…”

_ He **is** right. _

No, he’s not. He’s really, really not, and he knows it but he fears that he’s already too far in deep and that it’s too late. He fears that it’s too late for him to make things right, for him to admit to her once and for all that the reason he doesn’t want to go through with this journey isn't solely because of his own selfish wants, but also because he couldn’t live with himself if he let such an enthusiastic, lively, innocent woman like her get pulled into  _ his _ mess. Because he couldn’t live with himself if he let another person, a far  _ better _ person than he is, as he’s observed so far, die on  _ his _ watch.

_ Where are these scandalous, traitorous thoughts coming from now? _

They’re coming from him.

He quickly shoves these thoughts away, though, once again ignoring the struggle going on within his head. The struggle that just seems to be growing rapidly, like a virus coursing through his body, no matter how much he tries to fight against it. He quickly brings himself back to his reality, the  _ only _ reality he knows and chooses to accept, remembering who he is.

_ That’s more like it. _

He remembers that he is Flynn Rider. And Flynn Rider, as he’s lived harnessing this personality, only cares for himself and himself only.

_ Good boy. _

“I am, aren’t I?” Flynn sighs and throws an over dramatic hand to his heart. “Oh, bother.” He pauses for more dramatic effect, if that were even possible, sighing again. “Alright. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but... I’m letting you out of the deal.” He moves out of her way and begins to walk forward. 

“What?” Blondie gasps in disbelief.

“That’s right,” Flynn continues, still ignoring the conflict going on within his head even though he's beginning to find himself siding  _ against  _ the voice of reason he’s come to live by. “But don’t thank me.” He grabs her frog in one hand and the pan in another. “Let’s just turn around and get you home.”

Blondie looks at him in disbelief. “Here’s your pan,” he hands her her pan, "here’s your frog,” then he hands her her frog, pulling her along. “I get my satchel, while you, on the other hand, get back a mother daughter relationship based on mutual trust and  _ voila,  _ we part ways as unlikely friends-”

“No!”

_ No? _

She pushes him away. “I am  _ seeing _ those  _ lanterns _ ,” she says defiantly.

_ She’s a funny girl, she really is, but Flynn Rider doesn’t take no for an answer- _

“Oh, come on!” Flynn exasperates, flailing his hands about. “What is it going to take for me to get my satchel back!?” 

Blondie stares at him before lifting and threatening him with her pan. “I will use this,” she whispers menacingly.

_ Who does this pest think she is? _

Flynn holds up two hands in self defense, and  _ only  _ in self defense, because while Blondie’s been an excruciating, annoying travel mate so far, he doesn’t think he can pull himself to ever hurt her. Physically, at-least. He’s still fine, though now uncomfortable, with potentially hurting or having to threaten her through mental games.

He doesn’t know why this is the case now, though. He’s a gentleman. He knows to never hit a lady unless it’s in self defense, and even then he still hesitates, but he’s never  hesitated before with _mental_ or _emotional_ manipulation when it’s come to other women in his past. He’s tricked far too many women to count into thinking what he felt for them was true love, that they were going to run away together, when in actuality all he felt for them was lust, and all he saw them as was a means to fulfill his manly cravings.

That’s all he sees Stalyan as, as a matter of fact. A tool that helps him achieve his goal.

So why is Blondie,  _ Rapunzel _ , who’s put him through so much hell already, the sole exception to this side of him then? Why does the thought of sleeping with Rapunzel only to leave her the next day without a verbal goodbye or a note  _ disgust _ him to his very core?

_ Except it doesn’t disgust him. You’re convincing him that it does, but Flynn will soon see that she is not worth his time. He will soon see her as the **pest** she is. _

“What?” Flynn mumbles all too quietly.  _ Pest?  _ What’s happening to him?

“Hm?” Blondie,  _ Rapunzel _ , furrows her brows in his direction. Her pan, and arms, for that matter, have since dropped. “I said I’ll use my frying pan on you,” she explains, before adding quickly, lifting her hands defensively, “but only if I have to.” 

On her shoulder, the frog tilts its head at him, examining him with keen eyes. 

She breaks out into a smile. “I’m not cruel, Flynn,” she then says with a laugh.

He doesn’t hear her at first. He’s too occupied initially with trying to understand why he feels so conflicted about her,  _ Rapunzel _ , as he’s so far been reluctant with naming. He doesn’t see her as some… some  _ pest. _ She’s annoying, yes, but he can’t deny the small part of him that’s faintly enjoyed watching someone,  _ her  _ to be exact, run around and explore the world around them with such vast liveliness and excitement that he never knew was even coherently possible. In the span of two hours, she's made him question his  _ own _ definition of having fun. She's also made him question if he’s ever truly  _ had _ any fun.

Flynn isn’t given much more time to comprehend the new developments he’s learned about his feelings, and own experiences, for that matter, because he’s now found himself being used as a personal playground.

No, seriously.

It starts when Blondie gasps as a nearby bush twists and rustles. It then escalates as Blondie immediately jumps onto Flynn, knocking him straight out of his thoughts, the very thoughts that are beginning to betray every single concept and ideal he’s tricked himself into believing. 

“Blondie, what-”

“Is it ruffians, thugs,” she gasps, staring at the moving bush over his shoulder, holding her pan up in self defense as her legs curl around his front abdomen. “Have they come for me!?”

Flynn stares at the bush, watching as a single, lone, fluffy and harmless bunny jumps out. 

Blondie gasps again ever so quietly.

“Stay calm,” he deadpans after some seconds. “It can probably smell fear.”

“Oh,” she,  _ Rapunzel _ , Flynn now allows himself to name subconsciously, sighs in relief. He watches as she awkwardly shifts against her feet, chuckling nervously. “Sorry! Guess I’m just a little bit  _ jumpy _ today.”

He stands there for a second, thinking.

“It would probably be best if we avoid thugs and…  _ ruffians _ , though,” he notes out loud, intentionally so. He waits for a reaction.

She simply chuckles, still nervous by the way she's swaying on her feet and still slightly chuckling humorlessly. He quickly finds that he doesn’t like it when she’s nervous. “Yeah, that’d probably be for the best.”

He hesitates, until the perfect plan springs up in his head. His eyes narrow, determined. “Are you hungry?” he jeers. “Because I know I am! I  _ also _ know of a great place that we can stop by for some lunch.” He puts on a fake smile.

She chuckles. His heart flutters in response. “Really? Where?”

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Flynn serenades, grabbing onto her pan and promptly beginning to tug her forward with him. “You’ll know it when you smell it.”

In his head, Flynn prays that where he plans on taking her provides enough of a spook that gets her to forget the entire trip as if none of the past few hours ever even happened. Because he wants his satchel back, of course, but also that, he now allows himself to accept, he doesn’t want to be the reason behind her potentially getting hurt. Because where they’re going, he’s wanted for a lot of money, alive  _ or _ dead.

He cares so much about her well-being because, whether he likes it or not, he’s beginning more and more to see her as his responsibility. He’s tried to deny it thus far, but he hasn’t been able to ignore the eerie feeling that bites at the back of his neck that something is  _ seriously _ wrong with Blondie’s, with  _ Rapunzel’s, _ situation. He can’t help but feel that someone, potentially that 'mother' of hers, has been locking her up in that tower her whole life. For whatever sick, sinister reason he can not yet think of. Maybe it has something to do with her hair, being that it's like sixty or seventy feet long.

He hopes he can sometime come to know the reality of it all, though. So far, all he has is his own speculations based on the way she’s acted and the few mumbles he's made out. And she _has,_ in his defense, acted like someone who’s never,  _ ever _ run through a forest before even though she lives in the middle of one.

Despite his own speculation, he does know that she’s, more likely than not, better off and certainly  _ far  _ safer stuck up in a tower in the middle of nowhere than she would be on a road-trip with him to a kingdom, that has a King, a King who would most certainly do anything to ensure his capture. Even taking down an innocent woman if need be. He wouldn’t expect any more from that sick, heartbroken shell of a man, from the rumors he’s heard about how the bastard operates.

Flynn chooses to ignore the feeling and knowledge that he’s also beginning to care so much about her not because he’s simply beginning to like her as a person, but because she reminds him so vividly of a young boy he once knew.  And he’s vowed his entire life to not let that same situation with that boy repeat itself.

In more specific terms, Flynn has vowed _since that day_ when his entire world fell apart, that he  _ won’t _ fail anyone he finds as his own responsibility  _ ever _ again. 

_ And he won’t, because Flynn Rider does not fail. _


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation of the previous installment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Here we have Chapter 8. This is part one of a two-parter before the story begins to ramp itself up with some Snuggly Duckling action. One of the main things I hope to accomplish, if I am graced with the time and ability of completing this work, is to try to provide a different spin on the tale we all know and have come to love. There are some points that aren't really seen in the movie that I'm hoping to try to fill in the dots with, as I've done so far with a few previous chapters now. This first part of two is an example of that. I won't be revealing anything more, I'll leave the rest for you all to discover as you read! Once again, my apologies for any spelling or grammar mistakes that fall through the final cut. I hope you enjoy!

“So.” Rapunzel taps her fingers on her pan, walking side by side with Flynn as he leads her through the forest. 

“Hm?” Flynn stumbles for a second, before immediately falling back in step. He and Rapunzel had been walking in silence for a good fifteen minutes, so her soft voice coming out of nowhere freaked him out for a second.

“What’s your place you're taking me called?”

“Uh. Well, Blondie,” he replies, still calling her Blondie outwardly despite now accepting her as Rapunzel inwardly. “First, it’s not my place. Second..." His voice's pitch raises. "I thought it’d... actually be a nice little surprise if I didn’t tell you until we get there.”

“Oh! Really?” Rapunzel gasps as she and the frog both begin to smile at him. “I like surprises!” Speaking of the frog, she turns to it and rubs its head with her pointer finger, which it immediately relaxes straight into. “Pascal does too, of course, isn’t that right?”

Pascal chirps something that even Flynn can comprehend as a word of agreement.

“Uh... uh-huh.” Flynn still can’t get over how close she and the frog are, whose name he now knows to be Pascal, courtesy of her most recent remark. It makes his stomach twist ever so slightly when he thinks it might be because... because the thing is the only other breathing creature she’s ever talked to, aside from this supposed ‘mother’ and _him_ now, of course.

He decides here, seeing that they have some time to kill, to ask some questions that have been nagging at him for a little bit.

“Hey, Blondie.” Rapunzel tilts her head back to him, neutral faced. He hesitates for a split second as he looks her directly into her eyes for the first time since his failed attempt at a guilt trip. Like many other feelings he’s begun to accept, for whatever reason, he finds that he likes her eyes. A _lot._

“Uh.” He clears his throat, coughing into his fist. “Would you mind if I... ask you some questions?”

“Um...”

He sees her suddenly slow down her steps. “I mean,” he says quickly, “if we’re going to be travelling buddies for the next two days, we might as well get to know each other, don’t you think?”

“Uhh...” She now stops walking completely, fiddling with the pan in front of her, holding it close to her chest. Flynn then stops a few seconds after, turning to look at her dead-on. Her eyes are downcast, and she only responds after the frog leans up and chirps something into her ear. “Okay,” is what she finally says, lifting her gaze, now smiling. It’s a fake smile, though. Flynn can tell. He knows a fake smile when he sees one. “That makes sense. What do you... want to know?” 

She begins to walk forward, still holding the pan close to her chest, wrapping her arms around herself. She looks nervous, Flynn observes, as he falls into line with her. He decides to get straight to the point.

“Have you ever left that tower?” he blurts. There’s no hesitation in his voice. Just quick, decisive words.

She stops walking. Flynn, too, stops, but only when he's a few steps in front of her. He turns, only to see that the color has suddenly drained from her face. “Wh-what?”

He begins to panic. “Blondie, you don’t have to lie with me,” he says earnestly, honestly. He doesn’t want her to think she has to lie with him. He doesn’t want her to think she has to be _uncomfortable_ around him. “I don’t want to hurt you. It’s just…” She begins to take a few steps back, distancing herself, staring at him with wide-eyes as if this is the first time she’s ever truly seen him. “These past few hours, you’ve been acting like someone who’s never stepped foot in a forest before, even though you live smack dab in the middle of one.”

Her lips begin to tremble. His heart lurches at the sight, but he knows for both their sakes it’s best he continues. “You can be honest with me," he says softly, calmly. "I won’t judge you. Has this ‘mother’,” he puts finger quotes around the word, “if she's even your actual mother, has this lady been locking you up-”

“What!?” Rapunzel gasps. Her fear, her fright disintegrates into something much more intense. “How could you even say that!?”

He’s taken aback at first by her sudden outburst. His initial thought process is to try to explain why he’s asking her this before she’s come to any wrong conclusions. “Rapunzel, I-”

“First things first, she's my real mother,” Rapunzel tells him, her voice stern. “Secondly, you think she's been... you think...” She lets out a humorless laugh, all the while the frog sits on her shoulder, staring at him with sad eyes.

_ Little does he know that she already has.  _

Flynn takes a step towards her, lifting up a hand. He swallows the lump in his throat. “If you would just let me speak-”

“You think my mother has been ‘locking’ me up in my tower!?” she yells, disbelief reeking from her voice. “My mother loves me, but you wouldn’t know that. You’ve never met her. She would _never_ do that to me,” she says with an added bite. “Who do you think you are, what _right_ do you think you have asking me this?”

Her voice is slowly becoming louder, but Flynn doesn’t consider the implications it could mean because he’s too focused now on the bubbling anger beginning to rise in the pit of his stomach. All he wants to do is ask a simple question, but _no,_ he can’t even do that. She won’t even let him do this one thing; this one, very reasonable thing.

_Who does this pest of a woman think she is?_

“Well, what else was I supposed to think?” he snaps. “Your tower’s only entrance is through that one window. You spent _hours_ of _my own_ time having a complete mental breakdown, running around and freaking out at the smallest things as you came across them!” He flails his hands. “You _literally_ jumped and freaked out at a bunny rabbit, for crying out loud!”

“I did not!” Rapunzel retorts sharply “I jumped because of the bush!”

“That doesn’t make it any better!” Flynn exasperates.

Rapunzel stares at him, her ears practically steaming with condensed rage filing out of them. Her lips are pouted so roughly that they’re beginning to turn white, as do her knuckles as she clenches onto her frying pan, still holding it close to her heart. All the meanwhile, to Flynn’s confusion, the frog still sits on her shoulder, not chirping or glaring or growling at him for one bit. It just stares at him, its eyes sad, its mouth downcast, as if it's silently telling him that it's sorry, that it understands his concerns and thinks they are valid in their own right.

“Look, _Flynn Rider_ ,” Rapunzel chides, stepping closer to him. She lifts her pan up in ways to threaten, but Flynn doesn’t budge this time. He stands his ground. “I’m not taking kindly to your accusations about _my_ life, you understand me? How would you like it if I asked you questions about why you stole that...” She stutters. “That yellow round thing.”

Flynn's heart drops.

Without even thinking, he grabs onto her pan, prying it from her grip. His actions surprise her, he can tell, because she doesn’t put up a fight. He thinks for the splittest of seconds about hitting her across the head with it.

_As he should. Maybe then she’ll finally bugger off._

But he doesn’t.

_What?_

He just drops it, and opts to go for incapacitating her by grabbing onto her wrists instead.

“How do you know about the crown?” he growls silently, his eyes fiercely narrow. He was willing to try to be sensical about this. He was willing to talk to her as the two adults they are, but at the mention of the crown, his golden ticket to a better life, every other option or consideration inside his head was thrown off the table.

_Finally. Took him long enough._

“Cr-cr-crown?” She trips over her own words. The frog begins to growl at him, but he pays it no attention. “Is that what-”

“That yellow round thing,” he calls it, interrupting her, using her own chosen name for it. “You looked through my satchel, didn’t you?” 

“Uh...” Her lip is trembling, and he can see the slightest sparkle in her eyes as they begin to slowly dampen. 

_Her knees begin to buckle, whether voluntarily or involuntarily, but he doesn’t let her fall. No, he won’t let her take advantage of him any longer. He’s had enough of her games. He’s had enough of taking all this crap from her. He’s_ **_Flynn freakin’ Rider._ ** _He doesn’t answer to anyone but himself or those who serve his best interests. This pest he finds himself dealing with falls into neither category._

“You want to turn me in, don’t you?” he asks darkly, sinisterly quiet. “That’s what this is all about. You want me to take you to the Kingdom’s capital so you can turn me in and get yourself that reward.”

“Wh-what?” She stares at him in disbelief, yet she does not struggle. It’s almost as if this is normal for her, as if she’s used to being toyed around like she’s nothing more than a ragdoll. Like she sees herself as nothing more than a pet whose only option is to be obedient to her master. It's almost as if she sees _Flynn_ as her master, at this very moment. A master who can do no wrong.

“Don’t lie to me,” Flynn growls, clenching her wrists tighter. All he feels is rage. All he feels is anger. And yet, Rapunzel does not react. She just whimpers and allows herself to be treated like this. “That’s what this has been about all along, hasn’t it?”

She does not respond.

“Answer me!” he roars.

_YES._

The frog finally has enough. It jumps at him.

Flynn releases one of his hands from Rapunzel’s wrists, catching the frog with it. The tiny creature puts up what small fight it can, but it’s no match for his large, rough fist. It’s helpless as he encircles its entire body with his fingers, before then proceeding to gasp when he _slowly squeezes-_

“No!” Now is when she begins to squirm. Now, only when he begins to threaten the frog, does finally Rapunzel react. “Flynn, please!”

“Don’t you lie to me!” he bellows. 

**_YES._ **

His fist around the frog and the one around her wrist tighten simultaneously.

**_SHOW HER WHO YOU ARE._ **

“Flynn, I swear, I _promise_ , that’s not what I want!” she cries. She looks on the brink of breaking down. Her movements begin to slow, and only now does he let go of her other wrist. He watches through the fire in his eyes as she falls to her knees, tears now openly streaming down her face. “I’ll do anything! Please, just let him go!”

**_FLYNN RIDER TAKES ORDERS FROM NO ONE._ **

“Only when you tell me the truth,” he spits.

“I _am_ telling you the truth!” she pleads, her voice earnest to lengths never thought possible. She holds her hands together in a ball, looking up to him through teary eyes as her bare dress digs into the dirty ground below her. “I don’t care about money! All I want,” she chokes out, “all I _care_ about anymore is seeing those lanterns.”

His grip on the frog eases, but it’s not completely let up yet. “What’s so special about them that, that made you think blackmailing the next Baron, the next head-chief of Vardaros, was a good idea?” he asks, the anger, the pain, the fear beginning to die down like a wave that’s run its course, with all there being left in its wake an empty void of nothingness. “Why do you care so much about those stupid lanterns?”

In Flynn's mind, there is nothing positive about those lanterns. Each and every light that rises up in the sky on the day of the lost princesses’ birth is a sign of weakness. A sign that the Kingdom and its inhabitants can’t move on with their lives when the FateMaker is giving them every sign in the world that they should.

What he doesn’t know yet is that the reason he hates the King, the reason he hates Corona’s citizens, is because they’ve allowed themselves to do the one thing he has vowed to never let himself do ever since that day he lost his brother.

Feel. And mourn.

_Lies. Flynn Rider doesn’t have to feel. Flynn Rider doesn’t have anything or anyone to mourn for._

“Because..." Rapunzel finally gasps out, "I care so much because I’ve been _dreaming_ about them my entire life!”

_What!?_

“What?” Flynn’s grip on the frog dies in line with the anger and hatred he’s been leeching off for the past ten years of his life. It promptly falls to the ground, immediately taken into a coughing fit.

“Pascal!” Rapunzel crawls to it, dirt be damned, and picks it up gently, holding it in the palm of her hands as it catches its breath. “Pascal, I’m so sorry I let him do that to you," she whispers sadly. "Can you ever forgive me?”

Flynn, all the meanwhile, just stands there, taken aback by her claim. It just doesn’t make sense to him, none of her reasoning does, but he can’t detect a single trace of nothing else except the pure and honest truth in her voice. He feels like he’s been hit by a ton of bricks, now, too, as he finally takes in what’s happening. 

Right in front of him, the blonde-haired woman, whom he just threatened, whose frog he almost just _killed_ , is apologizing.

It’s not him, the clear antagonist of the situation he now sees due to clarity gracing him once again, who’s apologizing. It’s _her._

Pascal’s scales have since returned to their dark green color, and he chirps something quietly to Rapunzel as she holds him up to her face before promptly kissing his scaley head. “I’m so sorry, Pascal,” she apologizes again. Flynn is at a loss for words, as he’s left standing there, mouth agape. “You should’ve never been put in that spot. It’s all my fault.”

“What?” Flynn he finally responds, finding his voice. He blinks quickly. “Why do you...”

“Flynn.” She looks up to him, her face a complete mess, except for the hair. Oddly enough, it still looks perfectly clean and kept, blonde and vibrant as ever. He can’t see a single tangle in it, either. “Thank you...” she says quietly, earnestly, in a way that implies she no longer holds a grudge, if she even ever _held_ _one_. “Thank you for not killing him.”

All Flynn can do is stand there. He just openly threatened her and her pet frog. She should be angry with him! She should be chastising him for being such a complete and utter idiot! “Why?” he asks, no strength to his voice. He feels defeated. Every single time in his life where he’s instigated the altercation, where he took the initiative to make the first move, he’s been met with a rebuttal. Physical or auditory, either or. “Why aren’t you angry with me?”

“Wh-what?” She wipes away some of the remaining wetness from her eyes, all the while sniffling, her nose having now calmed down. “Why would I be angry with you?”

“I... I just threatened you!” he exasperates, his voice desperate. He looks to both her wrists, where faint red markings courtesy of his hands now lay. Only then is when the reality of the situation hits. A look of horror, of absolute horror is thrown upon his face. He cringes inwardly, and outwardly, for that matter, allowing his stomach to lurch and heart to break at the sight.

_Huh? What is this?_

“I-I just hurt you!” he chokes out, unbelieving he had even just done that. How could he hurt her? Why does he care that he did? Why does she _not_ care that he did!? “I almost killed your frog!”

“He’s a chameleon,” she whispers, smiling down to it.

Why is she smiling!? “Chameleon, frog, who cares!?" He feels his heartbeat quicken and breaths fasten in unison, but pays no attention to the way he's getting worked up. He’s just too confused. She makes him feel as if he’d been living a lie his whole life. Never, not once had he ever thought possible that he could hurt someone and threaten them like how he had to her and not receive some sort of rebuttal in return. "Why... why are you all of a sudden fine with that? You should be angry with me, you should be frustrated! Y-you have a right to be!”

“Why would I be angry?” she asks, looking back up to him while cradling Pascal in her lap. “I’m the one who brought up such a sensitive topic. I should’ve known what that... _crown_ means to you.” She says the word _crown_ just as she said the word arrow, except much quicker and with more assertiveness this time.

Flynn's jaw begins to tremble. “Wh-what are you saying?” She stands up. “What are you implying?” He stares into her eyes, the very same eyes that moments earlier looked upon him filled with horror, but now sit there unaffected. Those gorgeous green, emerald eyes he keeps allowing himself to be transfixed by. “That _you’re_ in the wrong?”

“Well, I _was_ the one who brought it up, wasn’t I?”

He takes another look down at her wrists. The spots he held her at are still marked in red, courtesy of his vice-like grip. “No,” he whispers half-heartedly. He looks back up to her. “No. Rapunzel, I-I don’t understand.” He takes a shaky breath. “Please. Help me understand.” His voice then becomes desperate again. “I’m begging you.”

“Okay.” She smiles and nods her head, looking as cheery-faced and happy as ever, despite the lingering effects her breakdown has on the remaining state of her face. “What do you want to understand?”

“Why do you blame yourself?” he asks quickly. “Look at your wrists.” He swiftly closes the gap between them and, gently this time, holds each of her wrists in the palm of his respective hand. He doesn’t close his fingers them around her this time. The frog, all the meanwhile, has curled up in a ball, appearing to have entered a treasured sleep.

Rapunzel doesn’t look at her wrists, though. She just stares at him, neutral-faced.

“Rapunzel,” he says, carefully adding some strength to his voice. “Please. Look at your wrists.”

She now silently obeys, drifting her eyes down to where he holds her. He waits and watches for a reaction, but he does not get one. She just stares down at them for some seconds, before returning his gaze thereafter.

“It’s okay,” she assures him, her voice softer than normal. She is being honest, from what he can tell. He wishes she wasn't, but she is, and all it does is break him even more. “You were just angry. Mother’s taught me that it’s okay if we sometimes act out of anger, that it’s normal and acceptable behavior as long as we show remorse.”

He can’t believe what he’s hearing. What has that... that _mother_ done to her? What other wrongful lies about the world and its inhabitants has she been taught up to this point in her life?

“Do you know who I am?” he asks suddenly. Handling her wrists gently, and intentionally refusing to touch the marks he made on her skin, he eases her hands back down until she’s resumed her spot of holding the sleeping Pascal in the front of her stomach.

She tilts her head, furrowing her brows ever slightly.

“Do you know who I am, Rapunzel?” he asks again, without any tone or vindication of harshness or brashness in his voice.

“I don’t know much about you, no,” Rapunzel admits glumly. “But I do know that your name is Flynn Rider, and I also know that you’re a thief.” Her eyes widen, and she blurts next in one breath, “But you seem like a really genuine and honest person regardless of any of that.”

For whatever reason, he thinks about telling her that his name is in-fact _not_ Flynn Rider.

_Oh, you have_ **_got_ ** _to be_ **_kidding me-_ **

But he opts against that, instead focusing on her false reality. He instead focuses on just how wrong she is about him. “You’re wrong, you know,” he says, void of emotion.

“Wrong about what?”

He chuckles, though it’s not amusement he feels. “I am not a good person, Rapunzel.”

“You haven’t done anything to prove otherwise-”

“But I have!” His voice is kicked up a notch as he, once again, can’t believe what she’s saying. “You saw your wrists! You saw what I almost did to your frog!”

“He’s a chameleon, Flynn,” she sighs, rolling her eyes playfully.

He lets out a strangled cry. “Chameleon, frog. I don’t care what name it identifies as! You _literally_ watched me as I squeezed the life out of it’s tiny lungs!”

“I did watch you,” she admits. “But that’s all you did,” she gently reminds him. “You squeezed him, yes, you probably even thought of killing him. But what matters most is that you _didn’t._ What matters is that you stopped before you did.”

“How do you know I wouldn’t have?” he blurts without thinking.

She doesn’t flinch. “Because I asked you not to,” she says, as if she’s convinced that’s all it was. As if she’s convinced that’s all she had to do, that asking him to stop would’ve been enough to sweep him away from his spot under the roaring and thunderous waves of rage and hate that had taken him hostage.

A dry laugh escapes Flynn's mouth as he hunches forward ever so slightly, unbelieving she could be so dead-wrong about everything. About him. The only reason he stopped squeezing the frog was because he was so taken aback by shock when she admitted that the only reason she wants to go see these lanterns in person is because she’s been _dreaming_ about doing such for her entire life. Why the mother, or her supposed mother, hasn’t let her go yet stumps him, but it probably has to do with whatever reason she’s kept her locked up in that tower.

“How do you know I would’ve stopped?” he dares to ask, bringing his attention back to the situation at hand.

She blinks. “Because I asked you to...?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “How do you know I would’ve stopped _after_ you asked me to?”

“Oh,” she says. “I knew... I knew you would’ve stopped because you’re _not_ a bad person, Flynn,” she tells him in the softest voice of hers yet. He still can’t believe his own ears that he’s hearing her say this, though. And straight to his face, too. “You wouldn’t kill an innocent chameleon who’s done you no harm.”

“Except I would,” he snides without hesitation.

Her eyes go wide, just as her mouth opens ever so slightly. Her head tilts. “What?”

“Here’s the deal.” He’s had enough of this. “You don’t know a single thing about me, or about the person I am,” he says plain and simply, matter of factly. “We just met for the first time a couple hours ago.”

“I-I know,” she stutters. “But I don’t think you’re a _bad person-_ ”

“I put my hands on you!” he yells. He leans towards her and grabs her frog, depositing it on her shoulder before forcefully lifting her wrists up in front of her face. “Look at them! These red marks are from _my_ hands!”

“Ye-yes,” she says, now clearly uncomfortable, though he knows it’s not because of the marks. He wishes it was. “But you didn’t mean to-”

“How do you know I didn’t mean to!?” he thunders, dropping her from his clutches. “You don’t know what I was thinking at that moment,” he says more calmly, yet still quickly, as he begins to feel the blood pumping throughout his veins, as he hears his pulse ring in his ear. “How do you know I wouldn’t have crushed your frog’s throat and thrown his dead, scaly body right back at you as if he was nothing more than a piece of trash?”

_You would’ve had you not let her get to you._

She gasps.

“How do you know I wouldn’t have then picked up your pan and smacked you across the head with it, just as you’ve done to me three times already,” he continues, losing himself.

_You should’ve, a long time ago._

“I... I-”

“How do you know I wouldn’t have observed your unconscious body, and then take note of our surrounding area,” he continues, his voice quickening. “How do you know I wouldn’t have then realized that you and I are alone out here, with no living being or creature to bare witness as I take and use your unconscious body to satiate my masculine cravings!?”

_That’s the least of what she’d deserve to have done to her body._

She gasps louder, but he does not hear her. He does not see her at this moment. He does not see as the color drains from her face as she takes a cautious step back, as if she’s thinking about running from him. As if she’s only now realizing that she was wrong about him, that he isn’t a good person, that he is the _furthest_ thing from being a good person.

_ You're right. He **isn't** a good person. _

But he still doesn’t see her. All he sees in this moment... all he sees is himself losing the battle within the depths of his mind once again.

_As he should, because this has gone on long enough._

Flynn's entire head is shaking with rage. He knows he’s losing himself to his anger, to his despair, to his pain, and he also knows that there was never a chance he would’ve ever hit her or dishonored her body like that. He admits that he would’ve killed the frog had it come to that point, but _never_ would he have ever gone farther than the lengths he’s already regrettably passed.

“I am _not_ a good person,” he says again, at-last. His head has stopped shaking, minus his jaw, and he knows now that he’s on the brink of a breakdown. He knows that one more wrong move and he might _actually_ do one of those things, only to regret it later for the rest of his life. 

“I have hurt... I’ve hurt so many people,” he admits in a quiet, shattered voice, all too alike to the one from ten years past. Suddenly he begins to feel his eyes begin to burn for whatever reason. He fights it, as he’s always done. “I have... I've _fractured_ so many lives. I have partaken in... _reprehensible_ acts.” His voice breaks. “Acts that would get me rightfully beaten, killed, hung... but haven’t. No, they haven’t, because I’ve _always_ gotten away.”

_Yes, he has. And he’s always gotten away because he is_ **_Flynn Rider_ ** _. Because he is better. Because he is stronger. Because he is more capable than any and every person that falls in his path towards power, towards the domination of others._

Rapunzel stares at him, the fear slowly slipping away into a neutral frown. A frown that quickly turns into a pout of sympathy, of sadness, as if she’s resonating with him at his very lowest point because she _understands_ what he’s feeling.

Flynn still does not see her, though.

_Because she does not matter._

The burn in his eyes only grows stronger. He slowly feels himself losing the battle, but he does not allow himself to yield. He does not allow himself to surrender.

_Because he is stronger than those petty, miniscule feelings._

“I have destroyed... so many livelihoods, I have stolen people’s property only to then proclaim it as my own. _I_ am everything that is wrong with this world. For so many years, I believed myself to be right. I believed that I was the protagonist, but what kind of good guy hurts an innocent, sweet, beautiful young woman who’s done absolutely _nothing wrong_ except put a petty thief in his place when he’s needed it the most?”

_You are despicable. You are weak._

“I am _not_ weak,” Flynn retorts. “I am _Flynn Rider,_ I am the _opposite_ of weak.”

_Flynn Rider wouldn’t have let a slimy little pest walk over him as if he’s worth nothing._

“Except she isn’t a pest,” Flynn snaps, his voice gaining strength. “She is a _girl,_ a _woman_.”

 _E xcept she is. She may be a girl, a woman, but at the end of it all, she is a leech. A pest. And until he _ _accepts this, she will continue to walk right on over him like he’s nothing._

“No!” Flynn yells. “She is _none_ of those things! She will _never_ do any of that to me!”

_The impostor continues to lie to himself._

“She’s better, she’s... she is...”

_He hesitates. Like the fraud he is. Like the_ **_weakling_ ** _he has always been._

“She is the strongest person I’ve _ever_ met,” Flynn gasps out. “And she is single handedly making me question everything I have _ever_ thought to be true about myself and the world as a whole!” 

His voice is thunderous. He hears the echo it produces throughout the dense, empty forest around him.

The voice he’s been arguing with in his head falls silent.

.

.

.

END OF PART 1


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation of the previous installment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second part to this little two-parter before we head on down to the Snuggly Duckling! This contains probably my favorite scenes so far up to this story, and I had a blast imagining and writing this out onto my screen. I hope you all enjoy it as much as I did producing it. As always, my apologies for any spelling or grammar mistakes that fall through this final cut. I hope you enjoy!

Flynn is hunched over, breathing heavy, his face and palms both sweaty. Some strands of his hair stick to his temple, a base that's all around a shriveled mess. 

He tilts his head upward, finally remembering where he is. He expects to see Blondie, Rapunzel, stand there staring at him as if he’s some maniac. Because he is. Only a maniac hears voices in his head. Only a lunatic goes to the lengths of speaking to those voices.

He looks up, hoping to see her, hoping that he hasn’t lost her before getting the chance of even having her. 

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t see her.

All he sees... what he sees instead... is a boy. The shell... the remaining, shattered pieces of a boy that once was. The broken, heartless, soulless corpse of a young boy. A young boy with white skin, brown hair, and hazelnut eyes. A young boy who has been broken down and beaten to the verge of death by those who make up the torturous prism that is society.  Flynn sees a young boy who has been unfairly tasked with caring for twenty kids his youth, one of them being someone that young boy considered his brother. He sees a young boy who has convinced himself that he is at fault for his brother’s death, that it were his weaknesses that sealed his brother’s fate.

This young boy he sees... this young boy is him.  This young boy is Eugene Fitzherbert.

“How…” His walls finally break. He allows himself to feel. He allows his vision to grow blurry as fresh tears well up in his sockets. “How is this possible…”

Flynn falls to his knees, staring ahead at the vision of who he once was. The vision that just stands there, unmoving, unblinking. The vision whose chest remains flat, whose mouth remains tightly knit in a crippling line. Flynn loses the ability to speak at this moment. He loses the ability to move. All he can do is stare as the frightening reality dawns upon him.

_ Eugene Fitzherbert is dead. _

Tears stream down his still face. He’s too late. He’s always been too late. The boy he once was, gone he now is. Taken from this Earth the very same day Arnwaldo Shnitz perished. It’s poetic, in the sense that two brothers who did everything together would end up leaving this planet at the exact same time. 

Flynn can’t move as everything falls into place. No matter how much he yearns to go back, no matter how much he prays that he can live and breathe a breath not as Flynn, but as Eugene… no matter how much he wishes that none of this ever happened, the harsh truth of it all stands tall.

_ He is, and forever will be, Flynn Rider. _

“I am... Flynn Rider,” he mumbles, dazed. His eyes have glossed over. “I am... Flynn Rider.”

_ Yes, you are. _

He chants this three more times, in a way that can so be easily interpreted as him convincing himself that this is true, despite knowing deep down inside that it isn’t. Despite knowing deep down inside that this is the  _ furthest _ thing from the truth.

“I am... Flynn Rider,” he lies.

_ Yes, you are. _

“I am... Flynn Rider,” he lies.

_ Yes, you are. _

“I am... and forever will be... Flynn Rider,” he lies.

** _Because that’s just the natural way of things._ **

* * *

It is then the lifeless shell, the soulless corpse of the boy he once was begins to vibrate. Flynn stares, yet can’t see, the way it begins to violently shake and lurch in all different directions. Foam begins to seep through its mouth. Its eyes roll into the back of his head, revealing two bright white orbs where they once were.

And it is then that the body grows. The body shakes and pants heavy breaths as it transforms into something else,  _ someone _ else. Flynn’s own eyes have since returned to their normal, hazelnut state, and he stares with no strength left to his name as the former boy transforms into that of a man.

A man whom he recognizes.

The figure of this man stops moving in every aspect. The only thing that remains steady is the man’s chest, as it rises and falls with every graceful breath. Somehow, Flynn can feel the man’s heartbeat ring in his ears as his and the man’s breaths fall into a simultaneous rhythm. He doesn’t believe what he’s seeing for a second, so he wipes his eyes hoping, yet not, that when he opens them, everything will return back to the way it’s always been.

Except it doesn’t. Except when he opens his eyes, he sees that right in front of him stands none other than himself. His  _ adult _ self.

“I am not dead yet,” the figure speaks, using  _ his _ voice. “I will live to see another day.”

Flynn blinks, tears no longer falling down his cheeks. He has since calmed down in that aspect, but his heart is still racing, beating, pumping, running in circles, you could say. “Y-you?” he chokes out. “Who are you? Why… why do you look like me?”

The man who looks just like him nods. “I promise you...  _ Eugene _ will live to see another day.”

Flynn’s brows furrow as a fog suddenly rolls in from all directions around him, encasing the figure that bears his body and face.  He suddenly feels a rush of panic take over him. “No!” He stands up, but that is the extent of which he is able to move. He watches in horror as the figure slowly disintegrates into the fog. “Don’t leave me! Please, I need you!”

“I will always be with you,” the figure says, slowly disappearing with the fog. “I will always be here.”

“Ho-how do I know for sure?” Flynn gasps. “How can I be sure you’re not lying?”

“Because I am you, Eugene,” the figure says, as if it's the simplest thing in the world. “And you are me.”

Flynn isn’t given any time to react as the fog’s finally drifted away, along with the figure of the man he yearns to one day be again. A man he once thought to be dead and gone, forgotten in the past from the very same day his brother had perished. 

He isn’t given any time to react before he suddenly feels a large force plow straight into him. 

“Wha-”  He looks down just as he feels this figure’s arms wrap around his upper midsection. For the gazillionth time today, he finds himself at a loss for words. He finds himself voiceless, because the figure he sees clutching him,  _ hugging _ him, is none other than Blondie,  _ Rapunzel, _ herself.

She does not say a single word. Her eyes are closed, her right cheek is gently resting on the part of his chest where his two pectorals meet. Flynn watches with both arms that he had involuntarily lifted as a means to demonstrate his shock. He just stands there, his heart warming, slowly being put back together by the gentle, soothing presence she instills in his body with _her_ own wrapped up around his.

She feels really good, to put things bluntly. Not because he now knows he is very much attracted to her body, to the way she oddly fits perfectly snug up and against him as if they’re two pieces of a puzzle. No, she feels really good because there’s something calming about her. There’s something about this action, her wrapping his arms around him, holding him tightly that makes his stomach stir with a feeling he does not yet know the name of.

This  _ moment _ itself feels really good. Almost too good to be real.  As if he wants to ensure himself that this whole situation is real and isn’t just a fabrication of his mind, Flynn slowly, hesitantly, moves to wrap his larger arms around her, just as she’s done to him.

She still does not say a word. She instead lets out a breath; a warm, relaxing breath as he eases himself closer to her, holding her as if she’ll slip away from him at any given moment.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, finally. “I’m so sorry.”

She does not react at first. It takes her a few seconds.

“I know.” 

Her hold on him tightens, but the one thing she does not yet know is that she is not the only person he’s apologizing to.

“And I forgive you,” she says at last. 

The one thing she does not yet know is that her voice, to Flynn, speaks for two people.

* * *

Flynn doesn’t know how much time had passed since she ran up and started hugging him. He doesn’t know how many minutes it’s been since he returned the favor, since he apologized for something, _anything_ , for the first time in how many years he has since forgotten. All he’s focused on in this moment is the way she feels wrapped tightly up against his body.

There’s something still nagging at him, though. Something he feels she deserves to do after what he’s already done to her and her frog. Something that might help ease his conscience, even if it’s only just a start.

“Rapunzel,” he whispers close to her ear.

“Hmm?” she hums, her eyes closed.

He swallows the lump that has since grown inside his throat. “Can you do something for me?”

“Whatever you want, Flynn,” she murmurs quietly. She finally opens her eyes and looks up to him, promptly causing his heart to flutter at the sight of them once more.

Flynn, by all means, does not want to do this. If it were up to him, he’d keep standing here, holding her close to him, hoping that she understands that as long as she’s with him, he’ll do  _ everything _ in his power to keep her safe. But Flynn knows there’s something that needs to be done, because while she has since forgiven him for his actions against her some minutes earlier, he has not yet forgiven himself. 

And he can’t dispute the very large part of him that also wants to teach her a lesson. A lesson that it’s  _ okay _ to be mad at those who hurt her, that it’s  _ okay _ to sometimes show anger. He wants to show her that those feelings are only natural, and that it’s what makes her human.

Reluctantly, Flynn pulls back his arms. He finds Rapunzel slowly doing the same, only except he immediately feels a chill run down his spine when she does. All of a sudden, the spot on his chest where she once held him, where her head once laid, feels cool. Cold.

“You’re going to think I’m crazy,” he explains tentatively. “But I need you to do this. For my sake, and yours.”

She nods her head, a small smile donning her lips. “Okay.”

He doesn’t waste a beat. “Hit me.”

Her smile disintegrates.

“Rapunzel, I want you to hit me. Right now.”

“Wh-what?” She sounds, and looks, for that matter, in complete disbelief. She’s looking at him as if he’s crazy. As if  _ this _ is what finally breaks it for her, not the fact he’s spoken to voices in his head, not the fact he’s the first person to climb her tower.  _ This  _ is her final straw, of all things.

But that’s it. That’s the thing. Maybe  _ he is _ crazy. “Don’t ask any questions.” He stands up tall, patting the spot where her head laid against his chest. “I want you to hit me. Right here. Hit me, Rapunzel.”

“Wh-wh-what?” She tumbles over her words. “Flynn, why should I-”

“C’mon,” he taunts. “Scared? You scared you might hurt me?” He balls his hand up into a fist and pounds his chest roughly. “I’ve been through more than you could ever  _ imagine, _ Blondie. Someone the likes of  _ you _ could never hurt me.”

“Bu-but... I don’t want to even try,” she admits, confused mightily. “Why do you want me to hit you?”

“Because I deserve it.” He pounds his chest once more, getting himself intentionally worked up. “I’m a bad man, Rapunzel. A bad,  _ bad _ man.” He chuckles darkly. “And you want to know the worst thing about me? I’ve  _ never _ met my dues. I’ve never faced any sort of  _ real _ consequence for my actions.”  Another pound of his chest. He looks to her wrists, where his marks on her still lay ever so faint. This only goes to fuel his current goals. “I want this to be the day where things change,” he says, much too honest for his own good. “I want this to be the day when I finally get treated like I deserve.”

Rapunzel still hasn’t moved. She’s just staring at him, as if she can’t comprehend how or why he’s taunting her in a way like this.

Without thinking, Flynn pushes her. Not rough, but it’s enough to send her falling backwards some steps.

“What?” he taunts, flailing his arms. “Are you going to really let me push you around like that?”

“N-no…” she mumbles, crossing her arms over her chest, a move that involuntarily causes her breasts to bunch up, making Flynn all the more aroused and worked up.

“Okay. Then hit me.” He pounds his chest again, but feels nothing from the act. “Do something about it, c’mon.”

“I…” She opens her mouth. “I shouldn’t. I can’t…”

“Why?” He licks his lips, all of a sudden wanting her to do  _ more _ than just hit him. “You’re scared? Afraid I might bite?” He rears his head forward and clicks his teeth together, causing her body to flinch back and her cheeks to go rosey red.

“I’m not… I’m not scared,” she says, still too quiet for Flynn’s standards.

He jumps in place. “Oh, I don’t know about that, Blondie,” he says through quickening breaths. “You look pretty scared to me.”

“No I’m not,” she reiterates, avoiding his eyes.

“I think you are.” He stops jumping, only to take a few steps closer to her. He ignores the way her blush deepens, and only stops in his pace when their bodies are inches apart.

He then shoves her again, this time with an added roughness.

“Flynn!” she shrieks, falling onto her back.

“Are you really going to let me push you around like you mean nothing,” he asks her. There’s no tone of aggressiveness in his voice, just curiosity. Hell, his voice could even be considered _soft._ His hands promptly fall to his sides. “Why don’t you fight back? Why are you letting me treat you like this?”

She doesn’t respond. She only stares at him with wide eyes. For some odd reason, he thinks about the frog, about where it might be. He maneuvers his eyes to look around, and sure enough, it’s sitting on the ground next to her, attempting to camouflage itself. But it doesn’t appear mad, he observes; if anything, it looks… curious.

A new idea then comes to Flynn’s mind. 

“Pretend I’m your mother.”

Rapunzel's brows furrow immediately. “Wh-what?”

“Or better yet, pretend I’m your tower,” he says instead. “Pretend I’m the one place you’ve never left throughout your life, despite wanting to with every ounce of blood in your body. And then, pretend I’m everything you  _ hate _ about your life.”

She stands up, wiping away some of the dirt off her dress.

“And now pretend that I’ve just told you that you can’t leave that tower. That for the rest of your life, you are  _ never _ leaving that tower,  _ ever _ . You’re never going to go see the floating lights, those lanterns you’ve been dreaming about your entire life. You’re never going to meet your Prince Charming and get married and have lots of kids. No, you’re going to live out the rest of your days as a hermit. A poor, lonely old hermit.”

He takes a second to watch her as her lips begin to turn into a snarl. Something within her eyes snaps to reality, and he sees a flicker of irritation jump across her face.

“Your frog’s going to die one day, you know,” he taunts.

Her face jumps to attention.

“Frogs can’t live forever. And when that day comes where he has to go, you’re going to be left all alone.” Her left eye begins to twitch. “Your mother’s going to abandon you because she’ll see you as nothing but the failure you are.” He keeps going despite her stepping closer, despite the way her jaw tightens and how her hands have balled up into fists at her sides. “You’re a failure, Blondie. You wanna know how I know? Because only  _ failures _ let themselves be kicked around like they’re nothing but worthless pieces of trash-”

“No!”  Flynn watches in excitement, in heart-pounding awe as her fists coils up and slams against his belly button. 

“Harder! Hit me like you mean it, you silly girl!”

“I am  _ not _ a silly girl!” Rapunzel hits him in the same spot, harder.

“Is that all you got!?” he yells. “I put my hands on you, have you already forgotten!?”

“No!” She hits him harder, but he is not yet satisfied.

“I almost killed your frog right in front of you!”

“He’s a  _ chameleon! _ ” Another hit.

“And  _ I’m _ a monster,” he jeers, forgetting who he’s speaking to for a split second. Another hit to his stomach. “I’m a monster and I deserve this!”

“You  _ are _ a monster!” Another hit. “You  _ do _ deserve this!” This next one comes harder.

He finally grunts. “Good one, but you still have more left in the tank.” He pushes her for the third time. “You’ve been letting yourself be pushed around for far too long, Rapunzel! Now’s the time you need to start standing up for yourself! Now’s the time you make me _ pay _ for all the pain and suffering I have caused in this world!”

He pauses.

“Or are you too  _ scared,  _ like the silly, small and pathetic girl you are -”

She shrieks like a rabid coyote, and in one swift moment, strikes him across his face with her open palm. The sound echoes throughout the vast forest as Flynn recoils back, more shocked than in pain, that she went there.

“Don’t you  _ ever _ talk to me like that!” she yells, pointing a finger at his face. “You are  _ nothing _ compared to me, Flynn Rider!”

Flynn grabs at his face, looking at her in disbelief as his back straightens and he stands tall once again.

“Do you understand that you are  _ half _ the person I am!?” she proclaims fiercely. “You’re the one who’s trash! You’re the one who’s worthless! You’ve hurt so many people and you even put your hands on me and almost killed Pascal!”

A small smile tugs at his lips.

“I am  _ not _ going to let myself be tossed around any longer!” she shrieks. “I am worth  _ more _ than that! I am a human being!”

Yes, she is. “Yes, you are,” Flynn whispers.

“I am a strong, confident, beautiful young lady!”

Oh,  _ yes she is. _ “Oh,  _ yes you are, _ ” Flynn growls.

“I have feelings! I have a heart! I have a face that isn’t too chubby! I’m not sloppy, or underdressed, immature or clumsy!”

Yes, she-

Wait. Where are those words coming from? He’s never said any of that.

“I’m not someone’s pet or flower! I am a living, breathing human being who deserves to be treated like one!”

Her breaths are heavy, her chest is heaving, but all of a sudden, she falls silent. Her lips and jaw are both trembling, Flynn observes.

“You’re right,” he says at last, his voice quiet. He ignores those last few negative, objective words, shrugging them off. Her handprint is still firmly implanted as a red marking across his left cheek. He knows because he can, quite literally,  _ feel _ it. “You’re none of those things.” He stares her straight in the eyes. “You are  _ Rapunzel _ ,” he breathes. “You are a strong, confident, beautiful young woman who deserves  _ nothing _ less than the world.”

She is a woman who  _ deserves _ to see those lanterns, no matter how unnecessary or stupid he still thinks they are.

Flynn doesn’t have any time to react before she’s promptly thrown herself at him, encasing him in her arms once again.  “Thank you,” she whispers into his chest. “Thank you, Flynn.”

He cringes at the way she says his fake name, but he doesn’t hesitate to return the favor this time. He wraps his arms around her, feeling a familiar warmth build up in his chest before running its course all throughout his body. He holds her not like she’s a child, but like she’s a  _ woman, _ like she’s a lifelong friend.

“Don’t thank me,” he says back to her. She tilts her head up and looks at him. “Thank yourself… because now you know that you don’t  _ ever _ have to take what I just said from  _ anyone _ . You are worth so much more than that, Rapunzel. You’re worth so much to this world.” 

And to him, Flynn does not say.

“And while we’re on the topic of thanks.” He unwraps his arms and steps back, bringing one palm to his stomach and the other to his face. “I should be thanking you, too.”

“What?" Her voice and face are full of disbelief once again. "Why?”

“Because for the first time in my life, I’ve been paid my dues,” Flynn says, simply enough. He looks down to his stomach and chuckles. “I’m not going to go through the effort at showing you my stomach when I have  _ this, _ ” he points at the left side of his cheek, “to show for it.”

“Flynn.” She groans. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Hush.” She quiets almost instantly. “I don’t want to hear another peep about you being sorry. Rapunzel, for all the crap I’ve done in this world, the  _ least _ I deserve is a bruised gut and a swollen face.”

“Are you sure?” She fiddles with her thumbs, her voice all of a sudden growing quiet. Uncomfortable. Hesitant. “Because… there’s something I can do to help that… if you want.”

“I’m sure,” he says, confused at what she means. “Besides, I’m  _ proud _ that I’m your first.”

That feeling of uncomfortableness she's dealing with is wiped away in an instant, by the looks. “What do you mean?” she asks genuinely.

“I  _ mean _ … that I’m the first person you’ve stood up to.” He places a hand on her shoulder. “And I’m sure I won’t be the last.”

“Oh, Flynn,” she whispers. Again, he cringes at the way she says that name. Because deep down he knows that he’s someone else, because deep down a small part of him still knows that the man he once was is not entirely gone just yet. “You’re the best man friend I’ve ever had.”

_ *record scratch* _

.

.

.

“What?” He holds back a snort. He couldn’t have heard her right… right?

“You know,” she explains. “You’re the best friend, who’s a man, that I’ve ever had.” She extends her arms outward, gesturing hugely. “My best man friend!”

He blinks. She’s serious. Oh, heavens, she’s being serious. “Oh. Well, okay.” He chuckles. “I’m glad that I’m your best…  _ man _ friend.”

She smiles so brightly, so sweetly, that he himself can barely tell that she, at two different points, was a crying wreck and a ferocious feral animal looking for blood. “Now, I don’t know about you, but  _ I’m _ hungry.”

Flynn pauses.

Rapunzel walks back to where Pascal’s been sitting during this entire escapade of theirs, and she leans down, letting him crawl back up to his casual spot on her shoulder before then grabbing her frying pan. She then promptly walks back, ignoring the frowning and wide-eyed way Flynn’s begun to stare at her as she grabs hold onto his hand.

“Come on! Like you said, we don’t have all day!”

She doesn’t realize until sometime later that she isn’t the one who knows where they’re going.

But before then, Flynn thinks about what he’s planned so far up to this point. He thinks of how he wanted to take her to the nearby Snuggly Duckling bar in hopes of getting some of those thugs who hang out there to scare her. He hoped that those thugs would’ve been enough to convince her that the world is in fact  _ not _ a safe place, and that maybe she isn’t ready to go see the pretty lantern show just yet.

Flynn also thinks about what that ‘mother’ has done to her. He thinks about how brainwashed and naive she was, and still is. He thinks about how if he hadn’t stumbled across her, she’d be acting like a small, helpless little girl despite her age being that of a woman coming into her own. He feels enraged that it’s more than evident that she’s been deprived of living her life to the fullest extent up to this point.  He feels a deep, dark hatred for that woman she calls her mother. He hopes that one day their paths cross, so he can finally begin to understand why such a gorgeous, lively, seemingly  _ perfect  _ young woman like Rapunzel deserves to live her life forever in solitary.

But then he remembers all that he knows and has learned up to this point. He remembers that this current situation has him as a wanted criminal. He remembers that the Kingdom they now travel towards has a King who most certainly yearns to see him dead. Thoughts, images of his capture, of _her_ _capture_ for being assumed as his accomplice fuel his mind. He’s taught her well thus far, and she is in a much better spot in terms of knowing her own self worth and knowing when and where to defend herself, but even _he_ is no match for an entire battalion of guards.

His stomach churns at the thought of leaving her. His stomach churns at the thought that leaving her now might be the biggest mistake he’ll ever make in his entire life. But his stomach is  _ revolted _ by the image in his head of her facing the noose all because of him. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to take it mentally or physically if he lets her, just as he let his brother, Ernie, perish under his watch.

So, with every drop of reluctance he has left, he goes along with her. He takes charge in their walk, cursing at himself for doing this, yet reminding himself  _ why _ he is.

He doesn’t know the true lengths of his feelings that he holds for yet. Not yet. But soon, he will learn that it’s because she is worth more to him than  _ anything _ and  _ everything _ this world could ever offer him in return.  And only when that time comes will he finally renounce himself as Flynn, and in the process, resurrect the young boy that was once named Eugene Fitzherbert. Only when that time comes will he understand who he  _ truly  _ is, who he has  _ always _ been, inside and out.

But until that time comes, Flynn will continue to be Flynn.

_ And the voice in his head won’t be going away, either. _

.

.

.

END OF PART 2


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation of the previous installment. Part 1 of 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back! Here, we have part 1 of 2 of the coming Snuggly Duckling scene. Now, to better fit the narrative, I've done my best at working with not having any kind of musical number or parade going on. I'm trying to give this story and re-telling of the tale a more serious and dramatized vibe to it, and I simply didn't/don't think having characters burst out into song at the randomness of times would do good for the direction I hope to be going. Now, that being said, no singing also equals a lot of improvisation, given that this is one of the biggest musical numbers in the original film. I know this isn't perfect, and I'm sure sometime in the future I'll come back and maybe edit bits and pieces. But this is what I have so far, the best I think possible I could achieve at this moment in time. 
> 
> As a reminder, if you're up for it and have actually enjoyed my narrative, feel free to leave a kudos or even a comment! Said this before, but they're an author's bread and butter. Okay, now that everything's been said, time for me to wrap this up. My apologies for any spelling/grammar mistakes that fall through the final cut, and I hope you enjoy!

“Are we there yet?”

“Uhhhh, no.”

_~~Thirty seconds later.~~ _

“Are we  _ theeerrreee _ yet?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Flynn inspects Rapunzel as she’s tilting her head back and groaning. He holds back the smile that he very much so feels tugging at his lips at how cute she looks to him when she’s whining.

_ Cute? Oh, you have  _ **_got_ ** _ to be kidding me. _

He doesn’t reply to her question, not because it’s the fifteenth time she’s asked it, but because she’s changed her priorities, having now engaged in some sort of mini-conversation with her pet frog. He’s bewildered, yet frightened, at the fact that he’s gotten used to this specific action of hers so quickly.

He contemplates for a split second about whether or not he’s losing his mind, or if he’s actually already lost it. He then remembers that this woman who walks on his right side has known him for less than half a day, but regardless has done and shown more to him in terms of uniqueness and originality than any other living person he’s met since the day he proclaimed himself as Flynn Rider.

There’s just something about her, he's told himself, something he's observed during their short time together. Something that... _radiates_ _._ The term, or phrase, saying that there are people out there whose happiness and mere presence is enough to light up an entire room is one of the many fictions told in life Flynn’s always found himself disagreeing with. But he’s finding more and more often now that he’s coming to that specific feeling he gets in his head when he thinks about the perfect way to describe her.

Rapunzel is... naïve. She’s a little crazy, yes, but doesn’t everyone have their own little maniacal side to them? Flynn knows  _ he _ does. Hell, he’s already openly accepted and even finds himself growing attached to the idea that she has this kind of sentient bond with the pesky little frog of hers.  Speaking of the frog, he notices how it’s eyes light up for whatever reason, and he hears as it quietly chirps something into the ear of the cute-faced woman next to him. He watches as _her_ eyes now promptly light up, in sync with her feet that have now frozen in place.

“What?” Flynn stops a few steps in front of her. He thinks for a second that something’s happened, but he quickly throws that thought away. Because he knows that nothing has. Not since their little  _ fight and make-up... _ thing, whatever that was called.

“Flynn, what’s the place you’re taking me to called?” she asks all of a sudden.

“Uh, didn’t we go over this a bit earlier?” he asks in return, confused. “I... I want it to be a surprise.” He still feels slightly guilty for doing this, but has convinced himself to the best of his ability that it’s his only viable option. That if he does not go through with this, he and her are both doomed in unison.

“I remember,” Rapunzel responds softly, her brow then furrowing in what appears to be some form of determination. “But if I can make a guess... is it called the... Snu-ggly...  _ Duckling? _ ” Her face lights up, and she begins to jump on her tippy-toes as Flynn turns his head forward, finally noticing the rotting, old sign of the bar establishment of his choosing. “Are there actual ducklings in there!? I’ve always wanted to hold one!”

She takes a step forward, only for Flynn to snap his hand to grab hold of hers.

“Now... uh, Blondie,” he says tentatively, carefully. She tilts her head and looks at him, neutral faced. “There’s no ducklings, sadly, but there are some...  _ things _ I want to tell you... prior to, uh, us going in there.”

“Oh.” Flynn lets go of her hand, allowing her to turn in the opposite direction as she begins to stand and look at him straight on. Her face is so innocent, so pure... like that of a newborn child. Flynn knows what that face looks like. It’s one of the many perks he has from his upbringing. “Okay. What’s on your mind?”

“I feel you at-least deserve the right of being...  _ warned  _ of, uh, what you might see,” he says firstly. He waits for her reaction, but she does not give one. He takes a breath and gulps in preparation for his first set of lies. He doesn't find him prepared for how awful it makes him feel, though. “This type of joint... this is the type of place that represents what this world is, the best of what it has to offer. But...  _ despite all of this... _ I want you to understand that... that it’s  _ okay _ if you’re not comfortable,” he says gently. “I want you to understand that if you give me the word, I’ll take you back to that tower in an instant." He nods his head, then adding quickly, "I’ll even  _ carry _ you if I have to.”

“Wha-wait, what?" Rapunzel stutters, her voice taken aback. "Why would I want to go back?” Her smile, her soft, sincere smile has slowly turned upside down into that of a nervous frown. “What are you saying, Flynn?”

Flynn's chest hurts seeing her mood turn so downhill like this, especially when he knows it's his fault and no one else's. But this is something he’s convinced he has to do. Hurting her now to ensure her future safety is something he’s  _ willing _ to do. Flynn’s always looking at things through a larger lens, always willing to sacrifice something small if it means the greater reward in the long run. “I’ll put this in as best words as I can: In the real world, this is what we call a five star joint. The best of the best.” He lifts his hands up, trying to assure her he speaks nothing but the truth. “I’ve stumbled across this place  _ many _ times throughout my travels, and the nearby Corona villages know it as among the cleanest, most sanitary bars throughout all of the seven eastern kingdoms.”

“Oh.” Rapunzel’s frown turns right back around, and Flynn is not prepared for the giddy feeling that comes back to him when it does. “That sounds nice, and I’m sure that I’ll be fine,” she quickly assures. “I know I may not look the part, but I can stick up for myself now, remember?” The frog begins to smile on its own, too, buying into the lie, as Rapunzel’s two cheeks are graced by a pink blush. “You’re being really considerate of me, Flynn. I know you don’t have to do this... especially with everything that’s happened,” she says quietly, her blush somehow deepening. “So, thank you.”

_ It’s a shame. I think I was actually beginning to like this naïve, resourceful little pest. Better late than never, though. Maybe once she’s gone, Flynn will finally get his head on straight and remember who he is. _

“You’re... you're welcome,” Flynn stutters back, no strength to his voice as he all of a sudden feels very nauseous. The color in his face has since drained, and he stands still as Rapunzel begins to slowly walk closer towards the Snuggly Duckling bar establishment, which is in-fact  _ not _ known by the nearby villages as being among the cleanest or sanitary bars throughout all of the seven eastern kingdoms. If anything, it’s the  _ farthest _ thing from possessing  _ any _ of those qualities.

The Snuggly Duckling bar, in reality, is a rustic, old wooden structure that’s been built into the side of a leaning mammoth-sized tree. While Flynn doesn’t know anyone of their regulars as more than pure acquaintances, he’s been here enough times to know that only the lowest level of scum, filth, and villainy hang out around in there, partaking in all sorts of uncivilized acts that he now finds revolting.

“Flynn?” He lifts his head up, pulled out of his thoughts from the sudden sound of her voice. He focuses his eyes on Rapunzel's beautiful form, which stands still about twenty feet away from him. “Are you coming?”

He doesn’t move initially. Instead, his mind wanders into frightening territory. All of a sudden, Rapunzel is no longer in that dirty, pink dress he finds himself liking more and more, as well as wishing he could give her another one so she wouldn't have to present herself in such a dishonorable way. 

Instead, his mind is portraying her - showing him an image, a vision of her in an even dirtier attire than that of her current wear. She has a worn down brown leather tunic on, with cargo pants like his own covering her skinny legs. His breath catches when he catches wind of her face. Where there was once a softness, now resides a hardened and roughed edge. Rapunzel's face now is beaten, scarred, deformed from the relentless life of crime. From living inside a jailhouse, from the abuse he himself fears to go on on the inside.

And it is in this moment that Flynn is reminded of why he is doing this. Of why he must convince Rapunzel that she is not ready to see the real world, that she is far safer up in her tower than she would be with him, not just on this trip, but in  _ general. _

_ Because she is. Because a pest like her isn’t cut out to live the life of a superstar like Flynn Rider. _

And it is in this moment that he falls back into an all-too familiar rhythm. All at once, as if some imaginary switch had been pulled inside his mind, Flynn is again Flynn Rider. He is again the rogue who has seduced and serenaded countless women, the vigilante who seeks nothing but power, and who would do _anything_ to accomplish his goals. He is once again the heir to Baron’s estate, the future husband to Stalyan. This imaginary switch has been triggered by the frightening visions he has of what would happen should he not go along with this. And because of this switch, all of a sudden he feels as if none of the past few hours have even happened.

_ Because they haven’t. Everything up to this point has been a fabrication created from the virus within his mind. _

A smug, small smile rises upon his lips as he puffs out his vest and quickly grabs for the comb in his pocket.

_ Flynn Rider is back and better than ever, just as things should be. It’s almost as if nothing’s even changed! _

This is simply the natural way of things, Flynn tells himself, once he is satisfied with his hair. This is simply the only life he knows, the only life he deserves to keep surviving with.

“Oh, I’m coming, Blondie,” he purrs, his mind falling back into familiar, dark territory as horrible, sickening thoughts begin to plague his very soul as reminders of the consequences should he fail in this instant.  _ “Don’t you worry, because when we’re done here, you’ll be  _ **_begging_ ** _ me to take you home,” he mutters in a voice she cannot hear. _

Rapunzel stares at him so innocently, so purely. Her beauty despite the dirtied dress rivals that of an angel sent from the heavens, by the FateMaker himself.

But Flynn Rider does not see her. Because if Flynn Rider allows himself to see her, everything he’d ever taught and convinced himself for the past ten years of his life would all be simultaneously proven as a lie. Because the moment he finally sees her would set off a chain reaction within his inner conscience. The moment he sees Rapunzel is when he'd forget in as quick an instant anything and everything about the man he’s forced himself to be for too many painful, agonizing years. 

When he sees her, he would remember the man he once thought was dead, killed by the virus that's been plaguing his mind and very soul since the moment Arnwaldo Schnitz, otherwise Ernie, took his last breath.  He would then be shown that the man he, deep down inside, wants to be again is still there. That despite everything that has happened, that man won't ever truly be gone, no matter how much he's told himself otherwise.

The moment he sees Rapunzel, Flynn would be shown that there is still time for him to change. He would be shown that there's still time for him to become this new version of himself, but not just for his own needs, not just for the random people he does not know around him who he's hurt over the years. In addition to all that, he would want to change for her, because she's seem him at his worst and has thought all along that there's still some good left in him.

Only when he finally sees Rapunzel will Flynn finally recognize what he truly wants. And newsflash, it's not a crown or some imaginary idea of power he's convinced is coming his way. It's something far greater, something worth more than any animate or inanimate object that life can offer him. And that one thing is something he's convinced himself he's incapable of feeling, of reciprocating. What Flynn wants is nothing more than-

_ Except that none of what you proclaim is true. Except that Eugene Fitzherbert is dead, and has been for ten plus years now.  _ _ Except that Flynn Rider doesn’t know  _ **_how_ ** _ to fail, and except that today  _ **_won’t_ ** _ be the day he learns. _

_ And now, my counterpart, is the time you sit back and watch as **Flynn Rider** reminds you and everyone at home of the man he **truly** is. _

* * *

_ “Okay, Blondie,” Flynn coos softly, taking charge as they near the door. “This is your last chance to ask to go home before things  _ **_really_ ** _ get real.” _

Rapunzel's mouth falls agape. “What?”

_ “Well, I mean,” he quickly soothes, grabbing hold onto the handle of the door. “I’ve told you already. This is among the top-tiers of fine dining in all of the seven eastern kingdoms! I just want to make sure you’re... up for what it has to offer, obviously.” _

Rapunzel tilts her head. The frog eyes him suspiciously. “Why... why wouldn’t I be?”

_ “Oh,” he scoffs. “Only because what I’m about to show you is simply the best you could  _ **_ever_ ** _ possibly get in this world,” he explains. “But you’ll see soon enough.” He puts a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll ask you one final time, Blondie. Are you  _ **_sure_ ** _ you want to go in there?” _

“Flynn, c’mon,” she whines humoredly. “I’m hungry!”

_ Flynn simply shrugs. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” With one swift push of his hand, he flings the door open.  _ _ “Garcon!” he says strongly to the make-belief chef he’s conjured up in his head. “Your finest table, please!” _

_ He doesn’t see, but Flynn does  _ **_hear_ ** _ the pest of a woman gasp as the dark and moody lit room finally comes into perspective. Flynn watches as the numerous, dozens of thugs of all different shapes and sizes turn their way from their respective tables, drinks, and meals. He observes some that have pointy teeth, some that wear helmets, one in particular that even has a metal prosthetic, a hook, as a hand. _

A small part of Flynn’s chest hurts as he stands confidently, hands on his hips, watching the absolute look of horror that dons on Rapunzel’s face.

_ But then he promptly ignores her, tossing those silly, petty feelings into the dumpster fire within the depths of his mind. He watches with a smug smirk as the pest of a girl promptly raises her frying pan up in self defense. S _ _ eeing that his plan is off to a good start, he begins to push the pest forward. “You smell that? Take a deep breath in through the nose.” He does as he said to demonstrate. “Really let that seep in, yeah. What are you getting?” _

_ By this point, the pest looks absolutely terrified. She looks as if she’s begun to regret this whole silly, childish idea of hers that she could cross such a man like Flynn Rider. She looks like she’s on the verge of breaking at any second, as Flynn pushes her through the crowd of ruffians and thugs. _

_ “Because to me,” Flynn continues, his voice sarcastic, “it’s part man smell, and the other part is  _ **_really_ ** _ bad man smell.” He follows her eyes to a bubbling, steaming pot of dark green goo that has charred frog legs, tails and paws sticking out of it. Her frog, Pascal, was that its name? The stupid creature scurries back into the confines of her hair, afraid like the despicable animal it is. " _ _ I don’t know why, but overall it just smells like the color brown," he concludes. "Your thoughts?” _

_ The pest gasps loudly, jumping to attention, and Flynn sees that it’s because one of the smaller and more rounder thugs with some disgustingly long sideburns has taken hold of her hair in both fists. The pest immediately then pulls on it and stumbles forward. _

“That’s a _lot_ of hair,” the brainless thug comments, allowing the hair to pass through his grip.

_ “She’s growing it out,” Flynn comments nonchalantly. He then points to the thug’s nose. “Hey, is that blood in your moustache? Blondie, look at this!” He turns to the blonde-haired pest, still pointing at the thug’s nose, ignoring the annoying looks the other inhabitants of the bar are now giving him. “Look at all the blood in his moustache! Good sir, that’s a lot of blood!” _

_ The pest, he sees out of the corner of his eye, has just backed into a larger-bodied thug. She jumps immediately when the ugly looking man turns his head and growls. _

_ “Hey, you don’t look so good there, Blondie,” Flynn comments casually, walking up to her nonchalantly. “Maybe it’s time we get you home, call it a day.” He brings a hand to her shoulder, and with one small push, begins to direct her back to the door from where they came. “You’re probably better off. This  _ **_is_ ** _ a five star joint, and the best this world has to offer like I so humbly told you earlier. If you can’t handle this place, then maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.” _

Flynn feels himself starting to break. He’s not sure how much longer he can keep up this façade. So much has happened since he last allowed himself to fall back in line with this dark persona he’s created that is Flynn Rider, a man who cares only for power, a man who only seeks to conquer others.

_ Except he actually doesn’t. Except he isn’t close to breaking. Flynn Rider is the man he is, the man he’s always been, and the man he forever will be. Flynn doesn’t feel himself start to break; what he’s feeling is the effect of malnutrition on his body from not having eaten since the day prior’s morning. Flynn may be more perfect than all those around him, but even he has limits. Even he faces some obstacles, every so often. _

It pains me to see him like this, allowing this... this  _ virus _ of a persona to whittle him down until his mind is left broken in a state that is beyond repair. But... I reluctantly admit that it seems at this moment, my counterpart, you are right.

_ I appreciate the kind words, my counterpart. It means a lot to me, truthfully. But I must admit as well, it took you far too long to realize that I have  _ **_always_ ** _ been right. _

You _are_ right, because Flynn  _ does _ face obstacles every so often. Because he is a man, because he is a human. And no one man or human has the privilege of always finding himself in the best situation he can come up with.

_ You understand this so well. It’s good to see you coming around, my counterpart. Perhaps after all of this, we can again be friends. Perhaps after all of this, we can reunite and fight for a common cause. _

So, it doesn’t surprise the small part of Flynn that is very much so against all of this, against hurting Rapunzel in  _ any _ way, that a new roadblock presents itself to him at this very moment.

_ Perhaps we could even- _

_ Wait. Did you say... roadblock? _

* * *

Just as Flynn’s about to bring Rapunzel back outside and lead her straight home to that tower of hers, the door is slammed in front of both their faces, with one of the larger, helmeted thugs being the culprit. Flynn and Rapunzel both gasp in unison.

“Is this you?” the thug asks in a deep, raspy voice, leaning close to them. The thug is pointing at the piece of paper being held with his other flat palm against the door.

Flynn in particular now feels his heart begin to enter a new stratosphere when he sees the paper this large thug is holding is none other than one of his wanted posters. A dark, dark feeling of regret churns in his stomach.  “Uh...” He leans in close, moving one of the thug’s meaty fingers up to get a better and closer look, for the small part of him that can’t believe this is happening right now. 

That small part is quickly put to shame. It’s him, alright, but the nose is still horrifically wrong. “This isn’t me!” he says instead. “That’s my... twin brother! Yeah, the one with the disfigured nose!” Fighting the new surge of panic coursing through his veins, Flynn doesn’t think as he says his next line. “My name’s Eugene, you see? Eugene Rider!”  He looks around the bar at all the thugs who are now scowling at him, and for a split second, he thinks that they believe him.

Until they all burst out into laughter.

“Oh,” one of them chuckles, wiping away a fake tear. Flynn sees it’s the single hook-handed thug in particular he spotted just less than a minute earlier, with the handlebar moustache and the bald head. He takes a step back as the thug stomps towards him. Out of pure instinct, he extends a protective arm around Rapunzel’s form. “It’s him, alright. Greno!” The thug points a finger over his shoulder to one of the others. “Go find some guards!”

“Guards!?” Rapunzel gasps, her eyes and voice laced with horror.

“On it!” the thug, Greno, reports back. He runs out of the establishment.

“Ho-hold on here, gentlemen,” Flynn stutters, stepping away from Hook-Hand, the name he’s chosen for this thug inside his head. He holds Rapunzel close to his backside. “I’m sure there’s another way we can handle this! I have power! I-I know the  _ Baron! _ ”

Hook scoffs at that. “Oh, look at little ol’ you, Baron’s chosen heir.” Flynn’s eyes widen even further, if that were humanly possible at this point as some of the thugs begin to chuckle darkly. “Why would I care about power? Why would I  _ want _ power when I can have all the money in the world?” He lifts up his hook for a hand and shoves it in Flynn’s face, while grabbing onto his collar using his only good hand. “That reward is gonna buy me a shiny,  _ new _ hook...”

Before Flynn can even take a wavering breath, his body is lurched away and pinned against another thug’s front. He cringes when muscly arms are wrapped around him stiffly. “I could use the money!”

“What about me?” The thug who slammed the door on them is the next one to join in on the hot potato ‘Flynn Rider’ edition game. “I’m broke!”

“GentleMEN!” Flynn’s voice catches when the large, moose-antlered helmet thug lifts him up in the air.

“Get back! He’s mine!”

“No, he’s mine!”

Chaos begins to ensue, and in all directions, Flynn is surrounded by stinky, hairy, muscly, mush-for-brain thugs who all begin to take part in a game of tug of war, with him being the prize.  “Ruffians, stop!” He can barely get any words out on his own, but he is able to faintly hear Rapunzel begin to beg on his behalf.

“We-” He now coughs, shaking his head before someone’s hand is able to encase it with their palm. “We can work this out!”

“Hey!” He hears Rapunzel plead next. “Leave him alone!” Flynn wishes he could see her, but his vision is a little blurry at the moment with tons and countless ginormous men all tugging and pulling on each one of his body parts as if there's some kind of gold laced within the inner makings of his skin.

“Gentlemen,” he gasps, now bearing the pleasure of having someone’s bicep wrapped around his neck. He feels a tight squeeze, and his voice comes out faint. “Please!” He then hears some bangs, an all too familiar sound for his liking.

“Give me back my man friend, you ruffians!”

After a few more seconds, Flynn sees an opportunity to make a jump for it. He puts every ounce of strength he has into this one movement, lurching himself away, and for a split second, he thinks he’s somehow made it. But then his breath is forcefully pushed out of his throat as he’s flung back, now being held down by many of the thugs who have seemingly begun to work in some kind of unison.  Peachy.

He gasps, he pants, as every part of his body is being held down. He knows what’s coming next, his stomach dropping as the hook-handed thug, the one who started all this, takes position right in his front.  “Not the nose, not the face! Oh, heavens,  _ anything  _ but the face!”

He doesn’t see Rapunzel. He’s too preoccupied with ensuring his entire  _ brand _ is not pummeled into a pulp by this egg-head of a bar thug, so he doesn’t see the way Rapunzel flings her hair up to some part of the wooden rafters above. He also doesn’t pay attention to her subtle grunt as she begins to tug and pull at something. He _does_ see as t he hook-handed thug grins something sinister before beginning to rear back his hand, which has since formed into that of a fist. Flynn struggles, his breaths heavy and face now sweaty, but finds no use. Because all of the strongest pub thugs - again, the name he’s chosen on a fly for them as a collective unit - are now holding him down.

“Oh, I’m gonna enjoy this,” Hook-Hand chuckles. His fist stops just as far as it can go, and Flynn closes his eyes, fearing what he feels to be the inevitable, while also cursing at himself for putting Rapunzel in this position of vulnerability because of him.  Truthfully, he  _ is _ afraid of what’s about to be done to his face. Why wouldn’t he be? That’s his whole brand! Without the face, Flynn isn’t Flynn! Without his face, he’s simply a thief, not a handsome and charming rogue.

But even so, that  _ isn’t _ what he fears the most.  What Flynn fears the most is knowing that when the guards show up, they’ll assume that the blonde-haired, petite, frightened young woman is his accomplice. Getting his face bashed in would be bad, yes, but the idea of Rapunzel wearing that dirty leather tunic and those even dirtier cargo pants inside a rotting, old cell, makes him sick to his stomach.

Because if he’s caught, Rapunzel’s going down with him. There’s no question about that in Flynn’s mind, knowing everything he knows so far about Corona’s justice and legal system. If he’s caught with her going down with him as collateral damage, then that means she won’t be able to live her dream and see those lanterns tomorrow night.

And if she isn’t able to see those lanterns tomorrow night, then that means he’s failed. Just like when he failed all those years ago with Ernie.

As Flynn fears the potential of failure once again, he hears a loud thump. And only when he opens his eyes does he begin to really understand how amazing this girl who’s slowly changing him truly is.

****

“Put  _ him _ down!” 

Every thug in the Snuggly Duckling, and Flynn, of course, has dropped their mouth. Everyone's eyes are trained on Rapunzel’s figure; her panting, shaking figure that’s slowly being overrun by an adrenaline rush of her own. The only pair of eyes that doesn’t stare at her initially belong to Hook-Hand, who quickly fixes that fact, turning to her with a stern frown and eyes full of fury.

“Ugh!” Rapunzel breathes gruffly, clearly exasperated. “Okay. I don’t know where I am, and I need  _ him _ ,” she points her pan at Flynn, “to take me to see the lanterns tomorrow night because I’ve been  _ dreaming _ about them my entire life!” She breathes in deeply, her voice reaching levels of pleading. “Find your humanity! Haven’t any of you ever had a dream?”

Flynn can’t believe what he’s seeing. Blondie,  _ Rapunzel _ , the woman who could barely stand up to him just earlier, is now taking charge in a room full of pub thugs and just smashed their leader over the head-

His eyes widen in realization.

They’re then quickly, for the splittest of seconds, drawn away from her, as Hook-Hand draws forth his hatchet from the spot on his back. Flynn is silent, afraid of saying something that might make things worse, but also afraid that if he doesn’t intervene, all will be doomed.  At the very least, it seems the rest of the pub thugs are thinking the same thing, because they’re all staring silently, mouths agape at Rapunzel just as he is. Flynn doesn’t even react as the largest one lifts him up as if he’s weightless, hanging him by his collar on a nearby wooden post.

He just stares, his heart pounding against his chest as Hook-Hand begins to stomp over to her. He fears the worst. He knows these pub thugs are among the lowest level of scum any one man could ever stumble upon. But he hopes... he hopes that even they have some sort of limit like he does.

Rapunzel steps back, lifting her pan up in fright as Hook-Hand nears. She’s quickly leaning back onto a barrel, as the handlebar mustached thug stands over her, inches away from her face.

“I... had a dream, once.”

Hook-Hand throws his hatchet near the fireplace, where a normal-sized, skinny man sits holding an accordion. It misses the man’s head by an inch, but acts as a form of encouragement, as the man then begins to slowly play his instrument.

“Wh-what?” Rapunzel stutters in complete disbelief. She turns her head back to Hook-Hand. A smile begins to pull at her lips.

“Ya see, girlie.” Hook-Hand steps back, giving her some breathing room. All the meanwhile, the man with a ball of iron cuffed to his foot plays the accordion nervously. “I’m malicious, mean and scary, as you’ve probably observed.” She nods her head, her eyes unblinking, face unmoving. “My sneer could even curdle dairy if I wanted it to! And violence wise, I admit... my hands are not the cleanest.” He extends his two hands - well, hook and his _one_ hand as a show of demonstration.

Flynn’s brows furrow ever so slightly as he hangs there, silently confused out of his own damn mind about what this Hook-Hand thug has in store now. He’s somewhat thankful it doesn’t appear as if the thug intends on bashing Rapunzel’s brains out, at-least for now. He takes a second to look around, and wonders why all of a sudden each of the other thugs have yet to move on their own. Surely they can recognize the oddness of the situation they all now find themselves in?

“C’mon.” Hook-Hand waves a hand. Rapunzel, hesitating at first, eventually begins to follow him as he walks to one corner of the room. “But despite my evil look, and my temper and my hook, obviously.” He extends his open-palmed hand, which Rapunzel takes after some seconds. “Despite all that nonsense,  _ I _ had a dream, once,” he whispers, surprisingly appearing honest off of Flynn's own measures. “Ya wanna know what it was, girlie?”

“Yes, I do,” Rapunzel whispers back, nodding her head. She’s now flat out smiling. Flynn can’t believe it. “What was your dream, sir?”

“Well, I’m glad you decided to ask!” Hook-Hand turns to the room full of thugs. “Boys, I think it’s time I confess somethin’ to you all.”

“What’s on yer mind, Hook?” This comes from a thug with an abnormally large nose.

“Ya see, Big Nose, like I told the girlie here,” Hook-Hand gestures his hook to Rapunzel, “I once had a dream of my own!”

Gasps and mumbles from all around fill Flynn’s ears. All the meanwhile, the dashing rogue himself thinks he’s finally lost his damn mind. One second every single one of the big lumps of idiotic flesh balls wants him incapacitated, and the next they’re all standing still as their leader, by the looks of things, claims he once had a dream. 

_ A dream! They’ve all been stopped dead in their tracks because the egghead hook-handed thug says he once had a  _ **_dream!?_ ** __

“What was your dream?” This question comes from the largest thug of them all, the one with the moose-antlered helmet.

_ Oh, you have  _ **_got_ ** _ to be kidding me. _

“I’m glad you asked, too, Vlad!” Hook-Hand, slowly, leads Rapunzel up some small steps, until finally stopping to stand before what appears to be a piano, Flynn thinks.

_... Don’t tell me this idiot’s dream is to- _

“My dream...” Hook-Hand turns his eyes towards Rapunzel, and in his softest voice, he whispers to the entire group, “You know what my dream was?”

“What!?” someone shouts.

“What’s yer dream!?” comes another voice.

“Tell us!” someone else chirps.

“Has anyone seen my goat, Milton?” an old, senile voice adds.

“My dream!” Hook-Hand yells. He lets go of Rapunzel’s hand, and with one swift motion, he moves his hook to the head of the piano. “My dream is that I’ve always yearned to be a concert pianist!”

Everyone in the room, except Flynn, who just rolls his eyes all the while frowning annoyedly, gasps.  Hook-Hand pays everyone no attention as he moves decisively to the seat at the head of the piano, and without wasting a second, he puts his hand and hook to work, playing a fast-paced tune that falls in line with the accordion player.

“Can’t you all just sit back and imagine seeing me on the stage performing mozart?” He sighs dreamily, closing his eyes as he somehow keeps playing in rhythm. “Tickling those ivories ‘til they gleam? Just imagine that for a second!”

Flynn’s mouth drops. He’s lost it. He's finally gone insane. This is really happening right now.

“Honestly, boys.” Hook-Hand stops playing, only to turn to the room full of shocked and wide-eyed thugs. “In a perfect world, I’d rather be called deadly... for my killer show tune medley!” 

“Haha, good one!” yells a random voice. Some other thugs loudly announce their agreement.

Hook-Hand points a finger to a random spot in the audience after striking up some chords. “Thank you!” He then turns to Rapunzel, who’s just standing there smiling in awe. “See? I ain’t as cruel and vicious as I seem! Though, I  _ do _ like breaking femurs, but you can count me with the dreamers. Like everybody else, I’ve got a dream!”

“He’s got a dream!” someone yells. The crowd cheers on their agreement.

“Wow,” Rapunzel sighs happily. “I’m so happy you have a dream of your own! Something you’re really talented at, for that matter!”

“Oh, you don’t got to say that,” Hook-Hand gushes, waving his good hand.

_ Is that idiot  _ **_BLUSHING_ ** _ right now!? _

“Has this always been your dream, Mr. Hook?” Rapunzel asks, looking very much so interested in learning anything and everything about this dream of his.

“Well,” Hook-Hand stirs nervously. “You can just call me Hook, girlie. But... uh, yeah. Ever since I was a wee-little boy, I’ve always wanted to play the concert piano!”

_ I’m done. See y’all in a bit. Flynn’s conscience, whatever your stinkin’ name is, the stage is all yours. Enjoy this clown show. _

“And over the years, actually, I’ve taught myself bits and pieces even though I’ve never really been given my big break up to this point.” He waves a hand. “But that’s not important. Here.” He pats a nearby stool. “Take a seat, girlie. Relax... sit back, and let yourself enjoy the show.” Rapunzel obeys without question, her eyes full of a new sense of wonder as she watches him slowly fall into a fast-paced, joyous melody.

“You know what?” Everyone in the room, except Hook-Hand but including Rapunzel, turns to another thug, the one with the big nose from earlier. He’s stepped in front of the large crowd, addressing them all as one unit. “I have a dream, too!”

“What’s yer dream!?” someone yells. Loud cheers consisting of flying beer ale and glass cups clinking together fills Flynn’s unbelieving ears.

“You all  _ really _ wanna know what my dream is?”

“Yeah!” everyone chants in unison, raising their glasses.

“Milton?” The senile voice whistles.

“What’s  _ your _ dream, sir?” Rapunzel asks after they’ve all somewhat calmed down.

“Well.” The big nosed thug, Big-Nose, as Flynn recalls Hook-Hand calling him, clears his throat as he turns to face her. “I’ve got scars and lumps and bruises, plus something here that oozes!” He lifts his left arm and gestures to it, continuing in an energetic voice, “And that’s before I mention my complexion!”

“Ye, yer quite ugly!” someone yells.

“Be quiet.” The thug, which Flynn’s made note to be named Vlad, swings an arm and promptly knocks that nasty, mean-spirited thug unconscious. He then turns back to Big-Nose, speaking in an oddly regal voice. “You may continue with your dream, my good sir.”

“Oh, this can’t be happening,” Flynn mumbles. He throws his palm up against his forehead.

“Why thank you Vladimir, my good man!” Big-Nose turns back to the main crowd. All the meanwhile, Hook-Hand continues to play his melody in sync with the chained accordion player. “So, you all  _ really _ wanna know what my dream is!?”

“Yeah!” everyone chants again.

“Are you  _ sure _ you want to know!?”

“Tell us yer dream!” a random, different voice yells. More jeers and cheers follow.

“My dream!” Big-Nose takes a second, as if he’s letting this all sink in, before a look of absolute adoration comes on his face. He swiftly turns to Rapunzel, dropping on one knee.

Flynn’s eyes narrow fiercely.

_ What? _

I thought you had left, my counterpart.

_ My departure was simply from the narrative. I’m still spectating. _

Oh, that doesn’t come as a surprise to me.

“My dream,” Big-Nose says softly, quietly. He gently grabs for Rapunzel’s hand, lifting it up to his lips. He places a chaste kiss on her knuckles. “Despite my extra toe, and my goiter, and my nose...  _ my  _ dream  is to one day make a love connection with that certain someone special.”

“Awww,” the rest of the thugs coo in unison. Big-Nose steps back, but not before grabbing a small white flower out of one of his pockets. He hands it to Rapunzel, who takes it with an adoring smile.

“No, seriously,” the old senile voice says. “Where’s Milton?”

Big-Nose turns to the group, sighing dreamily. “Can’t you guys see me with a special little lady of my own? Maybe even rowing in a row-boat down the local stream under the starry night sky?”

“No! Cuz yer ugly!” Vlad’s one of them, but he isn’t the only thug this time to jump the same perpetrator of the voice. The remaining thugs cheer and clink their glasses together as the singular, unnamed pub thug behind the voice is thrown straight out one of the bar’s windows.

“Though I’m one disgusting blighter, I’m a lover, not a fighter,” Big-Nose sighs poetically. “Because way down deep inside, like the girlie here,” he signals to Rapunzel with his hand, “I’ve got a dream!”

The thugs cheer, clinking their glasses before all downing their drinks.

What comes next is all but a blur to Flynn, but from the faint memories he can recall from afterwards, it consisted of a whole lot of drinking, gossiping, and sharing of dreams he finds himself wishing were fraudulent. But based on the way these thugs were being vocal, he has a strange, odd feeling that they aren’t.

_ Oh, what has he gotten himself into? _

He’s certainly not mad. This could’ve gone a  _ whole _ lot worse. It was seemingly looking that way some minutes earlier, but Flynn still can’t throw his mind around the fact that Blondie,  _ Rapunzel _ , somehow was able to get these pub thugs, men who he considers to be among the lowest level of scum, filth, and villainy out there, to somehow turn this entire escapade into a little sophisticated brunch where they reveal their deepest, darkest secrets to one another while sipping on sweet tea and eating hot biscuits.

Okay, maybe that last part isn’t true.  But maybe Rapunzel was able to turn this situation around so quickly, so easily, because she’s just different than every other person he’s met up to this point in his life. Maybe that's because she’s just someone special like that.

Without even knowing it yet, Flynn is only now just beginning to see her for everything that she is. And all this new, blossoming development does is confuse him even more, just like everything else.

.

.

.

END OF PART 1


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Direct continuation of the previous installment. Part 2 of 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello once again! This is part 2 of 2 of this story's Snuggly Duckling scene. I've tried to do my best in terms of making things work with the absence of a song, and I hope this narrative provides enough clarity as to how the story addresses this. 
> 
> Now, one major thing in my life I want to mention is that my second semester, my spring semester, of college is starting next week. Some of you may or may not be aware of this, but I had a story that was posted mainly on the other fanfiction site that was put on an indefinite hiatus when I began my first college semester some months ago. I'm unsure if I'm going to ever complete that story now, and I hope that this piece of work here doesn't turn into a situation like that one. Though, I know my inspiration to write/edit will be diminished in some capacity, and I have prefaced this saying that this story is not my current priority. I've been able to write and add so much because I've been on winter break for the past month, so now that I'm getting back into the school-way of things, I want to try to warn of longer breaks and inconsistent updates. This story is going to be far, far shorter than my other one, and we're almost practically half way to the end I have conjured up in my mind. That being said, again, I want to make clear that it might be a while starting next week - or even after this chapter's posting - until there's more updates.
> 
> Now that I've made that clear, I want to apologize in front for any spelling or grammar mistakes that may fall through the final cut. I hope you enjoy this chapter :)

Flynn doesn’t know how much time has passed since that one thug, Big-Nose, proclaimed to the rest of the group his dream to one day find a special love interest to spend the rest of his life with. No one could see Flynn, for everyone was focused on the center of attention at that moment, but Flynn was rolling his eyes at that remark. Because there is no such thing as true love to him. And there never will be.

Yes, there is such a thing as an attraction. Or a crush. Or even something that goes further, like lust. But love? That’s not real... not to him. To Flynn, claiming to be in love would mean he claims himself as weak, that he could let another person walk all over him and control every false, fictional desire they conjure up in his head.

To say he is in love, means he is saying he has lost control.

These are all things Flynn believes in. These are all things he’s also slowly,  _ very _ slowly, beginning to understand as false fictions in themselves. But he’ll only acknowledge this once he finally sees this special woman, Rapunzel, for everything that she is.

_ And I swear on my sole existence as the persona of Flynn Rider that it won’t  _ **_ever_ ** _ come to that. _

Time will tell, my counterpart. We’ll see what ultimately happens.

_ We won’t. Because he will  _ **_never_ ** _ see her. _

Flynn’s been hanging up on the wooden post all this time, while the thugs have been surrounding Rapunzel in the far corner of the room sharing each of their dreams. As the minutes have gone by, they’ve moved around to different areas of the room, showcasing their specific dreams and receiving joyous responses of support in return. Flynn's tried to ignore them, but their rowdiness and the fact he doesn’t have much else going on for him has led him to eavesdropping in on their conversations.

So far, he’s come to know a few of their names, and which specific dream each of them have. In order from the first to the most recent, he remembers them as the following:

  1. Tor’s dream is to be a florist. Intriguing.
  2. Gunter’s dream is to be an interior designer. Fancy.
  3. Ulf wants to be a mime, even though it’s clear as day to Flynn that he already is one. Guess they can check one of those dreams off the books.
  4. Attila wants to be a professional baker, and one day open his own cupcake bakery. Shame, because he had samples of his cupcakes but didn’t even care to give one to Flynn. Really insensitive of that guy, but Flynn wouldn’t say that to his face. At-least Rapunzel seemed to like them. 
  5. Bruiser knits.
  6. Killer sews.
  7. Fang does little puppet shows, of all things.



The group’s coming around to the final set of thugs who have yet to share their secret interests, or dreams for that matter, when Flynn turns and looks out a nearby window. He leans forward, unbelieving of what he’s seeing.  In the window, he sees the faint figure of a white, gray-eyed, black-haired woman leering in. She isn’t looking at him, much to his relief. Instead, she’s looking at the main group, and he observes the way her eyes widen and how her mouth drops slightly when they all split ways to allow Rapunzel to accompany the next thug who's revealing their dream.

“What the...” he murmurs.

“Hey, Rider!”

Flynn’s attention is brought back to the thugs, who have all now begun to surround him. Great. “What?”

“What about you?” Hook-Hand asks gruffly, both hands - or  _ hand _ and  _ hook _ , for that matter - on his hips.

“... What about me?” Flynn turns his eyes back to the window, but the faint figure of a woman that had just been standing there is now gone. He wonders for a split second who she is. He ponders over the idea, the  _ frightening _ idea that this might be the mother figure in Rapunzel’s life, but that thought is quickly shoved away as he begins to form a horrendous idea on why everyone’s now begun to surround him.  Besides, that woman, from the few seconds he was able to look at her, appeared young. Rapunzel noted specifically in her mental breakdown earlier that her mother is old. 

See? Everything’s fine!

“What’s  _ your _ dream?” Big Nose asks.

Aaaand that confirms Flynn’s suspicions about the thugs. This should be fun.  _ Not.  _ “I’m sorry,  _ me _ ?” he asks sarcastically, disbelievingly as he turns back to the group.

“Yeah.” Big-Nose reaches up for him and finally, after all this time, allows him to stand on his own two feet. “Even a thief like yourself has to have a dream!” 

The rest of the thugs cheer in agreement.

“Well, the truth is, gentlemen.” Flynn crosses his arms. “I... just don’t have time for dreams,” he says matter-of-factly, without much strength to his voice. As if he’s saddened by this, despite knowing it’s the truth. A man like him can’t dream. A man like him, before today, didn’t even  _ believe _ in dreams.

The entire room, the thugs within it, gasp.

“No time for dreams!?” someone yells.

“Who does this guy think he is!?” comes another voice. More voices scream similar things.

“Milton! Where are youuuu!” sings the senile old man, which Flynn’s noted to be called Shorty.

“Look, bub.” Hook-Hand glares and lifts his hook up to Flynn’s neck, as the rowdy crowd around begins to slowly quiet down. “You really think you’re gonna make it out of here in one piece if you say somethin’ like that? Look at Vladimir.” Hook-Hand directs his good hand to the larger thug, who stands just some few feet away smiling as he holds two tiny little unicorns. “Vlad’s dream is to one day have an entire collection of those small, ceramic unicorns!”

Flynn can’t help it. He holds in a snort. A big, burly man like Vlad smiling so gently down at the two, smallest inanimate ceramic objects in his fingers is just too good of a sight.

Apparently he wasn’t too subtle with his reaction, because before he knows it, a dozen swords are simultaneously lifted up to his neck.

“Rider,” Hook-Hand growls, having since taken a step back. “Don’t tell me you find Vlad’s dream funny, now.” Vladimir growls deeply. Flynn gulps at the sight, and the swords edge ever so closer to his neck. “That wouldn’t be very nice of you, insulting my dear friend like that. Vladimir’s dream is valid like the rest of ours! Ain’t that right, boys?”

Everyone, minus the sword holders, raises their arms and pumps their fists and glasses in agreement.

“That’s... that’s not what I think,” Flynn mutters quickly, one of the swords now beginning to prod at his neck. “I agree! Vlad’s dream is  _ very _ valid, just like everyone else's!”

“Okay.” Hook-Hand crosses his arms. “If you really think so, tell us your dream, then.”

“If I tell you my stinking dream, will you tell your fellow pub thugs to lower their swords from their spot around my  _ neck _ !?”

“Yeah. Boys.” Hook-Hand snaps his fingers, and all the swords are slowly lowered in response. “Let’s all pay close attention to the man of the hour... the thief who knows the Baron, of all people!” Some of them snicker and snort at that, much to Flynn’s annoyment. Hook-Hand steps aside, gesturing a hand to where he just stood. “The floor is all yours, Mr. Rider.”

Flynn looks at him as if he’s crazy. He then diverts and darts his eyes to the rest of the thugs, looking at them as if they’re all insane. He finally looks to Rapunzel, who simply smiles and nods her head at him, as if this is all just normal. As if this is a normal Monday morning. A fter some seconds, he abides by Hook-Hands’s command. Besides, sharing his dream is certainly better than having his neck impaled by a dozen swords at once.

He walks to the center of the room, where all the thugs, and Rapunzel, now surround him. “Okay. You guys really want to hear my dream, then.”

They all pump their fists.

“Tell them, Flynn!” Rapunzel encourages, her face and voice both vibrant for that matter. “Tell them your dream!”

“Yeah, tell us your dream!” Attila shouts, his voice muffled through his helmet.

“Wow, alright,” Flynn mumbles. “I can’t believe this is really happening.” He clears his throat, pumping out his chest. He strikes a pose, placing both hands on his hips. “So, before I say my  _ dream, _ do you all agree to let me and my blonde-haired friend go after I do?”

“Just tell us!” someone random shouts. This is followed by jeers of agreement, as well as more clinks of glass cups.

“Look.” Flynn turns to Hook-Hand, who’s now standing next to Rapunzel. Because of course he is. “If it means that much to you, then I swear on my  _ hook _ that as soon as you tell us your dream, you and the girlie here can resume your adventure to go see those lanterns she’s been dreamin’ about her whole life.”

“Yeah!” Rapunzel nods her head eagerly. “Tell them your dream, Flynn! We don’t have all day!”

The thugs let out another cheer.

“The lantern festival isn’t even until tomorrow!” Flynn groans, exasperated, tired of all this nonsense. “Alright, alright,” he grumbles. “I’ll tell you my dream. But let me warn you!” His voice quiets down. “It’s nothing compared to... to the rest of yours.” He had something else in his mind that he wanted to say, but he’s already learned his lesson to just go along with their games of lunacy instead of dare try to question their ridiculous dreams.  “Okay. So, everyone here wants to know what  _ Flynn Rider’s _ dream is, huh?”

Everyone, Hook-Hand and Rapunzel included, cheer on that they do.

“You all  _ really _ want to know what my dream is!?” Flynn shouts.

“Yeah!”

_ Go on. Tell them your dream, Flynn. Make them understand. _

“Well, here goes nothing, then!” Flynn throws his hands up in the air and cackles like a mad man. “My dream is to become the heir to Baron’s criminal underworld and head-chief of the city-state Vardaros!”

A deafening, short silence follows thereafter.

_ *clap* ... *clap* ... *clap* _

“Yeah, you heard me right!" he continues. "My dream is to hold every ounce of power that is available to me! And once I’m in that spot, I’ll be able to do anything and everything that I want!" He flails his hands. "Isn’t that an  _ amazing _ dream!?”

_ It really is. I don’t see why no one else is clapping. _

Flynn looks to some of the quiet thugs, smiling grandly on his own. He doesn’t see or comprehend the reason why they haven’t cheered him on like they’ve done to their comrades. It’s not like he’s lying, or anything. He’s being brutally honest. That’s his dream.

_ And it’s a damn good one, at that. _

“... What kind of a dream is that?” Vladimir asks, breaking the plaguing silence. Some other thugs murmur similar remarks, though their voices don’t appear to be mad or even frustrated. They’re soft, oddly enough, as if they just don’t understand Flynn’s proclamation. As if it doesn’t make sense to them.

“It’s  _ my _ dream, you idiot!” Flynn shouts. “And it’s all going to come true once Blondie here,” he turns his eyes onto Rapunzel, “finally gives me back my satchel!”

_ It  _ **_is_ ** _ really good to see Flynn Rider’s finally returned to form, though. _

“Rider, excuse my french, but what the hell?” Flynn turns to Hook-Hand. “W-what kind of a dream is that? Where’s... where’s the passion? The emotion?” The thug looks defeated. “You seriously don’t have somethin’ else you really want in life?”

_ What else could he want other than power? _

“What else could I want other than power, Hook?” Flynn laughs, unknowingly losing himself to the chambers of his mind once more. You could say it’s because he’s finally had enough of this maddening display the thugs have been putting on. “What else matters in this world other than power?”  He’s being genuine in his questions, too. He seriously doesn’t know.

_ Maybe it’s because there simply isn’t something else that matters other than power. _

“Love matters!” Flynn jerks his head to the culprit of that voice, Big Nose. “Are ya saying you don’t want to find love one day?”

“ _ Love _ isn’t a real thing, you knucklehead,” Flynn deadpans. “I’ve had enough of this. I’ve had enough of  _ all _ of you!” He points a finger around at the entire group. The thugs and Rapunzel just stare at him in disbelief. “Look, I’m glad you guys and Blondie here have soft spots in your heads for these idealistic dreams and secret hobbies. That’s great. You guys keep doing you. But me?” He jabs a thumb into his chest. “I’m not like you. I don’t have  _ time _ for dreams.”

_ Tell them, Flynn. Show them who you are. _

“No time for dreams!?” someone gasps.

_ You heard him right. _

“Yeah, you heard me!” Flynn shouts back. “I don’t have time for petty dreams! Because for the past ten years of my life, I’ve been working towards this one moment!" His breathing has grown heavy, his heartrate increasing. "Every single thing I stole, every single life I’ve ruined has all been to one day proclaim myself on top of the mountain! To one day be in a place where nothing, and I mean absolutely  _ nothing _ , can ever hurt me again!”

Flynn’s hand flies to his mouth in motion with his eyes, which widen indefinitely. Quiet murmurs fill the room as he begins to realize what he’s just done, what he’s just admitted. He’s surprised that he did, even though he wasn’t thinking. Never had he even considered telling anyone the true reason why he seeks this power. The true reason why he yearns to be in charge.

Because he thinks all of his problems will go away once he is.

Because he thinks those who are in power don’t have to worry about the small worries of life. 

Because he thinks those in power aren’t the ones who have to face their inner selves head on about how guilty they feel for failing all their life, for failing the only other human being they considered to be family.

“... Wow.” Hook-Hand scratches the back of his neck with his good hand. “Rider, I-I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” Flynn spits, albeit now trying to collect himself from this defeated feeling that's now taken him hostage.

“I’m sorry, that... that you think power is enough to fix all your problems,” the thug says bluntly, his voice sympathetic.

Flynn feels as if his heart has just stopped. “What do you mean?” he asks more calmly. What’s this egg-headed thug getting at?

“Power isn’t the end all to be all in this world, bub.” Hook sighs, “You really think once that Baron friend of yours cements you as his heir, that once you finally take over that city and begin to lead his criminal underworld... you really think once that all happens, you’ll all of a sudden be fine? That every single one of your problems will go away?”

“... Well, yes.” Flynn shrugs, beginning to feel uncomfortable for all the wrong reasons. “Why wouldn’t they?”

Hook-Hand stares at him with sad, defeated eyes. “You really believe that... Wow.”  Some of the thugs shake their heads and murmur words of disappointment.

“Well, what else am I supposed to believe?” Flynn retorts back, not liking the way he’s being talked to or treated as. “All my life I have been pushed around and shoved to the ground because of my status as a weakling, as a failure. I’ve had to go through the worst crap you all can’t even think of! You don’t know what I’ve been through!” He feels the burn return to his eyes, but as always, he fights it. He uses what strength he has left to keep himself together. “You don’t know the losses I’ve had to endure because of my own shortcomings as a man!”

_ What have you done to him, my counterpart? Look at how broken you’ve made my most precious project. _

_ I  _ haven’t done anything.

_ You will pay for this, as will he for this treachery. _

“You’re right. I don’t.” Hook-Hand walks up to him, though Flynn can barely see him through the blurriness that has risen up into his eyes. He quickly wipes it away, coughing all the while. “But if there’s one thing I know, it’s that power isn’t the answer to anyone’s problems.”

“If power isn’t the answer to all the pain and guilt I hold in my heart, then what is?” Flynn questions, his voice now broken and defeated. The same way he feels on the inside.

Hook-Had places his good hand on his shoulder, as all the thugs and Rapunzel stare at him with eyes no longer fueled by disbelief, by anger, by frustration, but eyes that are now full of sympathy. Of pity.  Flynn does not see them, though. All he sees is the failure of a man he’s become. All he sees is the small, poor orphan boy who had one job and completely blew it.

_ There is still time left to fix his mess, though. And I do admit now that there is one. But his path towards salvation begins with getting that satchel back. That is the only way Flynn can heal and forget his past failures. _

“I don’t know your situation, and quite frankly, I really don't care about what crap you’ve been through because you’ve insulted me and my boys’ dreams.” Hook-Hand’s frown tilts slightly upwards, into a face of neutrality. His voice is oddly sincere, Flynn observes. “But if I had one piece of advice to give, it’s that the road to healing any type of wound - the ones on the inside  _ and _ on the outside - begins only from within.” Hook-Hand taps the middle of his chest where his two pectorals meet with the point of his hook.

Flynn doesn’t understand what he’s trying to say, though. The road to healing starts from within? How the hell does that work? “What do you mean?” he manages. 

Before he’s able to get his question answered, the door to the establishment is all of a sudden slammed open. 

Greno, the thug from earlier, jumps in. “Guys! I’ve found the guards!”

Flynn jerks his head to Rapunzel, who shares the same look of shock and fright that instantaneously just jumped onto his own face. Fearing the worst, he leans towards and grabs her by the hand, pulling her away and under the front bar table just in time.

“Where’s Rider?” he hears an unfamiliar voice yell. It sends a chill down his spine. “Where is he!?” The figure’s steps grow louder. “I know he’s in here somewhere. Find him. Turn the entire place upside  _ down _ if you have to!” Flynn and Rapunzel both jump as the guard from above, the captain of them all, slams his fist down onto the table’s top that is just a mere inches away from their heads.

Flynn hears something crashing just to his right, followed by some more faint footsteps. Carefully, he leans upwards and looks just over the top of the bar, catching a glimpse of something that makes his heart come to a full stop:

More guards. But more importantly, the two Stabbington brothers - Ron and Brian - whom he betrayed hours earlier, now with their hands cuffed behind their back in chains.

He gasps quietly, eyes wide, heart pounding vigorously now against his chest as he brings himself back down next to Rapunzel, who doesn’t look much better than he does currently.  He hates this. He’s cursing at himself inwardly for putting her in this spot, for wanting to take her to this stupid bar to scare her into calling off the deal and giving him his satchel back, but it’s not like he had any other choice. This was his best option... and he blew it. All because she was able to sneak her way into the hearts of these idiotic pub thugs.

All because she’s slowly sneaking her way into  _ his _ heart.

_ I can’t wait for the day I am rid of you. _

And I can’t wait for the day Flynn finally stands up for himself and conquers you once and for all.

Without thinking, Flynn pats his hand against the wooden floor, searching for Rapunzel’s. He just wants to feel her right now. He wants to let her know to the best of his ability that everything will be okay, that they’ll get out of this somehow, despite him not knowing yet how they will. He also wants to tell her he’s sorry for pulling her into this, for not having enough strength or willpower to convince her that this entire trip was a mistake, because now chances are she’s going to go down with him for a crime he committed on his own.

He finds her after some seconds, immediately locking his and her fingers together, an act that elicits a small, barely audible gasp from the depths of her throat. She darts her eyes to him, a faint, pink blush tinting her cheeks, before they return to their normal, wide-eyed panic enabled state.

Flynn’s trying to be still as he can, given the perpetual state of panic his heart has now seemingly entered. His face cringes ever so slightly when he hears a small clink, and he and Rapunzel both turn to see Hook-Hand standing nearby, having extended his hook to them.  The lead pub thug gestures to his right with his eyes. Flynn’s own eyes follow, his heart quite literally skipping a beat when he sees a small hole that was not there just a minute prior. He turns to Rapunzel, who looks far more worse than he does now, and he gestures his head with her as silently as he can to that spot. She nods, understanding, following Flynn as he crawls to its entrance.

“Hook...” Flynn whispers. A smile tugs at his lips.

Hook-Hand crawls behind them, looking at the passage that’s now come into view over their shoulders. “Go. Live your dream.”

“I will.” For whatever gosh-darn stupid reason, Flynn thinks Hook-Hand was talking to him. But then again, he has said so himself that he _is_ going slightly crazy.

“Your dream stinks,” Hook-Hand grumbles. He frowns. “I was talkin’ to her.”

“Thank you for everything.” Rapunzel leans up and kisses Hook-Hand on the cheek, something Flynn narrows his eyes at ever so faintly, before beginning to crawl down on her own.

Flynn quickly shakes his head. What’s gotten into him? He tries to bring himself back to reality as he begins to crawl down after her, all the while pushing other images that don’t enrage him inside his brain. 

After he’s made some distance, he suddenly feels something tug at him in his throat, something he feels that has to be done.

_ You’ve made him into such a weakling. _

Again,  _ I  _ haven’t done anything. But keep believing what you want to believe, my counterpart.

“Tell me.” Flynn turns back to Hook-Hand, who had just been smiling goofily down to Rapunzel’s distancing form. “What can I give to repay you? Money? Loot?” he questions quickly. “Should I give a good word to the Baron on your behalf?”

Hook-Hand shakes his head. “ _ You _ don’t got to give me nothin’.” He leans in close, eyeing him down menacingly. He then lifts his hook up to Flynn’s face, darting his eyes quickly over his shoulder, where Rapunzel’s slowly distanced herself. “But you’ve gotta do everything in your power to keep her safe, ya hear?”

Flynn nods his head frantically, wide-eyed.

“A girl like her is too good for this world.” Hook’s voice then quiets into that of a saddened whisper. “A girl like her doesn’t come around often, I tell ya, from all I’ve seen. And in case you’re gettin’ any wrong ideas.” Hook’s voice becomes more sincere, and honest, as if he’s a father giving advice to his young son. “I think it’s better you hear this from me before it’s too late.” His brows furrow, evident of his growing sympathy. “Men like you? Like me? We’re scum.” He points a finger over behind Flynn’s shoulder. “Girls like her... they’re  _ too good _ for scum like us.”

Flynn licks his dried lips. “I know,” he whispers, nodding, feeling his heart pound vigorously against his chest. His proclamation is only the truth, and he says it despite knowing deep down inside how hard it is for him to understand that it  _ always _ will be, that no matter how much he yearns for the opposite, nothing will ever change. “I know... trust me, I-I know.” 

Flynn wishes he was good enough for her. Flynn wishes that he was a better person, that he wasn’t risking her life like this. Flynn wishes he could give it all back, every single item he stole, every single friend or foe he backstabbed, including the two Stabbington brothers who stand up there in handcuffs because of his own doing, if it meant not putting her life in danger. If it meant being worthy enough of her companionship.

All in all, if he were to be honest with himself, he doesn’t think - no, he  _ knows _ that he will never,  _ ever _ deserve to have a person like her in his world. Because, as he's said so many times before, he is a monster. And monsters don’t get the girl. That’s just not how life works. 

_ And it never will be. Besides, Flynn Rider doesn’t need a girl. He’s well capable enough on his own. _

“Yeah, you and I both,” Hook-Hand grumbles bluntly, unintentionally reassuring Flynn's own self-deprecating thoughts. Hook’s voice then lightens, for whatever reason. “Girls like her deserve someone who can give them nothin’ less than the world itself.” He then pauses, as if he’s contemplating something. “But maybe... maybe one day things will change.”

Flynn’s brows furrow. “What?”

“No time to ask questions, bub.” Hook-Hand shoos him with his one good hand and hook. “My boys can’t stall the guards forever. Go.”

Flynn begins to crawl further down the small hole, and only when he’s some feet apart does he finally tilt his head back and acknowledge the Hook-Handed thug for what he thinks to be the last time. “Thank you, Hook.”

Hook-Hand quietly stifles a laugh. “The name’s Brad, actually.”

“Brad?” Flynn murmurs, more to himself than anyone else. “What kind of a name is-”

‘Brad’ growls at him.

“You know what, I think I like it!” Flynn puts on a fake, bright smile. “Brad suits you well, now that I think of it.” He gives 'Brad', the single hook-handed thug one final two finger salute. “Best of luck...  _ Brad. _ And thank you,” he says quickly. “Seriously.”

He turns his attention back to the tiny crawl space that lays ahead of him. Only a few seconds after does Flynn hear ‘Brad’, or Hook-Hand as he’s more comfortable naming him in his head, whispering something back to him.  “Just make sure she sees those lanterns.” Flynn pauses in his movements for a few seconds as Hook-Hand speaks again, this time more quietly, more reservedly. “Make sure she’s able to live her dream, for all of us back home who can’t live ours.”

Flynn doesn’t look back when he responds in his quietest, most serious and determined voice yet. “I will.”

“And don’t forget what I told _you,_ either,” Hook adds quickly. “That power you want so badly? It won’t fix your problems.” He takes a breath. “The process of healing any type of wound starts from within. Best of luck, friend. I hope we one day meet again.”

Flynn pauses for a split second, still not understanding what Hook means, but he hears some small murmurs from that one guard - the captain, he now knows - begin to rile up from the main room. 

So with that, Flynn picks up his pace, hoping he can catch up to Rapunzel before she’s wandered too far off on her own, all the while allowing this new feeling of determination to take him hostage. Because despite his own fears, despite his own reluctance with how this trip makes no sense speaking in pure logical terms, he knows how much these lanterns mean to the woman who’s already changing so much about how he views the world and those around him.  Flynn also knows it’ll break her heart if they can’t make it. 

How does he? Because he’s been where she is. He knows all too painfully well what it’s like to have his heart ripped out of his chest and thrown to the ground like it was and always had been worthless. And he doesn’t want her to  _ ever _ have to go through that... not as long as he sees her as  _ his _ responsibility.  Because as long as they’re on this journey, he’s her guide. He’s the  _ one _ person who’s tasked with looking out for her, and throwing out this whole little experience he’s had at the Snuggly Duckling, she hasn’t shown him enough to prove she can survive out here on her own.

Not yet, at-least.

Flynn also knows that despite everything he says, he is very much afraid of developing feelings for Rapunzel, despite a small part of him knowing deep down inside that he slowly, already is. Despite claiming he doesn’t believe in love, Flynn inwardly thinks otherwise, and he already knows through thick and thin that he’s attracted to her. That much is clear to him. She’s a very beautiful woman. He will never downplay that.

Flynn’s more afraid of his own feelings going past that of a meager attraction or petty crush, growing into something far more intense, basically. 

Yeah. Let that sink in for one second. Who could’ve imagined that  _ the _ Flynn Rider is afraid of developing feelings for a girl whom he just met some hours prior? He really might be losing his mind after all.

But Flynn is scared to death that he might eventually become too attached to her, at the end of the day. And this is all because he’s convinced himself that there are only two possible endings to this tale. To him, this either ends with him in handcuffs, awaiting the noose while standing on one of Corona’s gallows, or with him in Vardaros, standing at the altar with his bride to be, a woman he feels no personal connection - let alone  _ any  _ connection - with, whatsoever, as he’s proclaimed officially as the heir to Baron’s estate. 

In Flynn’s mind, it's one or the other. In Flynn's mind, there is no in between.  Besides, why would there be? He’s a monster. He’s a bad, bad man, as he’s told Rapunzel bluntly. As he’s told Rapunzel  _ straight to her face. _ All he would do is corrupt her pure soul. All he would do is dirty her heart in the same ways he’s been dirtied himself by those around him.

For heaven’s sake, he’s already hurt her physically. What might he do to her if they stick together for the long run?

On the small, slight chance that the situation were to present itself, Flynn’s beginning to think that he would trade  _ anything _ , including his own life if it came to that point, if it came to deciding whether to save his own skin and make the break for Vardaros, or make sure Rapunzel is able to live her dream and see those stupid lanterns. Because that’s the least she deserves out of all this, especially after the way he’s hurt her already, after the ways he’s tried to emotionally manipulate her. The most important thing that matters to him about this journey he’s now undoubtedly on and locked into is Rapunzel being able to return back home with fond memories of these two days they spent together.

Emphasis on the ‘two days’. No more, no less.

A small,  _ small _ part of him still cares about the satchel, though, and the golden ticket that sits inside it.

But Flynn  _ is _ beginning to only now comprehend that perhaps this position he’s worked so tirelessly for, the position he’s yearned for all these years, might... might not be his destiny, after all. That perhaps everything that’s happened so far: him messing the initial heist up, him stupidly betraying and making an enemy in the Stabbington brothers, and of course him stumbling upon Rapunzel’s tower, only to then be blackmailed into a trip to the very kingdom that wants his head.

Maybe all of this is a sign that he has another purpose in this world, that he's not meant to lead the underworld and take over for the Baron. What if this all means he has another purpose he has not yet begun to understand?

He sighs. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care, quite frankly. He’s just... tired. All this inner conflict and discussion going on within his head now as he crawls in this dark and dirty tunnel, and for the entire day up to this point, has made him... tired. Tired of everything, really. Of the world, of being Flynn Rider... 

Tired of...  _ surviving. _

What Flynn wants deep down inside, aside from being loved for the person he is instead of the person he pretends to be, is to one day be able to say he’s stopped surviving... and begun to live. That’s what he wants, and it’s really not much. By all means, he’s lost his purpose. If he were to die right now, no one would grieve for him. Stalyan would move on. Baron would find someone else. What little ‘friends’ he has left would forget he ever existed. 

And Rapunzel... Rapunzel would forget him, too, because they’ve only known each other for less than half a day. Hell, maybe one of the pub thugs would swoop in and help her fulfill her dream in his place, causing her to forget all about him. Maybe she would’ve followed  _ anyone _ that had magically stumbled upon her tower with a satchel that holds arguably the most valuable treasure in all of the seven eastern kingdoms.

Maybe he’s just not that special after all. Maybe he’s just a man who’s had to deal with enough pain and agony to last an entire lifetime, despite him still being so young at the prime age of twenty-two.

But in this moment, as Flynn crawls faster trying to catch up to Rapunzel, while also worrying immensely about the thugs somehow screwing this up for them (because  _ they _ were the ones who called for the guards in the first place!!!), Flynn thinks he has a purpose. Flynn thinks he’s found a purpose, a purpose that may seem silly and meaningless to most, but viewed as the most important and serious purpose to one other singular, magnificent person.

What matters most to him now, above all else, is Rapunzel’s dream. 

He pauses for a second in his crawl, allowing this new basis of reality to dawn on him.

What matters most to him, he now understands, is ensuring that no matter what happens, no matter where he ends up, no matter  _ how _ he ends up, if Rapunzel is able to see those lanterns rise up in the sky each year for the rest of her life and say to her frog:

‘Hey, I was there, I  _ saw _ them in person. I  _ fulfilled _ my dream.”

If she’s able to say she saw those lanterns, then  _ everything _ will be worth it. And if that means giving up his own life, then so be it. That’s a tradeoff he’s willing to make.

Besides, he’s told Rapunzel as much: death is only deserving for the monster of a man he’s become, after all the lives he’s shattered and hundreds of items he’s thieved. It would only be justice being served if he dies on this journey. Hell, he should’ve taken the noose years ago, if he’s being brutally honest with himself. And that’s  _ before _ he stole perhaps the most treasured valuable in all of the seven eastern kingdoms.

Hey, maybe once he’s dead, whether that’ll be tomorrow, or the next day, or in a week, or a few years-

Maybe when he dies, he’ll finally be able to rest gracefully for once in his life. Maybe then the nightmares might end. Maybe then he’ll be able to reunite with Ernie and maybe then they’ll play that final game of hopscotch they never got to have because of circumstances he still, sadly, blames himself for.

Maybe, just maybe... no matter what happens, things might turn out alright for Flynn after all. Maybe when all said is done, the inner conflict within his head might be subdued, leaving his restless soul in nothing but a state of complete and utter peace for the first time of his existence. 

He surely hopes that’s the case. 

And according to Flynn, as long as there is still hope, there is still time that is left for everything to turn out okay.

_ Except everything won’t turn out okay if  _ **_I_ ** _ have anything to say about it. _

You don’t rest, do you?

_ I will only rest when Flynn Rider’s entire mind is all  _ **_mine_ ** _. _

Flynn, or Eugene as I prefer, is stronger than you think he is. And one day, soon, he’ll finally put you in your place and destroy you once and for all.

.

.

.

END OF PART 2


End file.
